Conversation developed that the newly landed one was named Smith,
and that he had come in a yacht. A meagre biography, truly; for
the yacht was most apparent; and the "Smith" not beyond a reasonable
guess before the revelation. Yet to the eye of Goodwin, who has
seen several things, there was a discrepancy between Smith and his
yacht. A bullet-headed man Smith was, with an oblique, dead eye
and the moustache of a cocktail-mixer. And unless he had shifted
costumes before putting off for shore he had affronted the deck of
his correct vessel clad in a pearl-gray derby, a gay plaid suit and
vaudeville neckwear. Men owning pleasure yachts generally harmonize
better with them.

Smith looked business, but he was no advertiser. He commented upon
the scenery, remarking upon its fidelity to the pictures in the
geography; and then inquired for the United States consul. Goodwin
pointed out the starred-and-striped bunting hanging from above the
little consulate, which was concealed behind the orange-trees.

"Mr. Geddie, the consul, will be sure to be there," said Goodwin.
"He was very nearly drowned a few days ago while taking a swim in the
sea, and the doctor has ordered him to remain indoors for some time."

Smith ploughed his way through the sand to the consulate, his
haberdashery creating violent discord against the smooth tropical
blues and greens.

Geddie was lounging in his hammock, somewhat pale of face and languid
in pose. On that night when the ~Valhalla's~ boat had brought him
ashore apparently drenched to death by the sea, Doctor Gregg and his
other friends had toiled for hours to preserve the little spark of