were set two large frames filled with specimens fo their art and
skill.

Keogh leaned in the doorway, his bold and humorous countenance
wearing a look of interest at the unusual influx of life and sound
in the street. When the meaning of the disturbance became clear
to him he placed a hand beside his mouth and shouted: "Hey! Frank!"
in such a robustious voice that the feeble clamor of the natives was
drowned and silenced.

Fifty yards away, on the seaward side of the street, stood the
abode of the consul for the United States. Out from the door of
this building tumbled Goodwin at the call. He had been smoking
with Willard Geddie, the consul, on the back porch of the consulate,
which was conceded to be the coolest spot in Coralio.

"Hurry up," shouted Keogh. "There's a riot in town on account of
a telegram that's come for you. You want to be careful about these
things, my boy. It won't do to trifle with the feelings of the public
this way. You'll be getting a pink note some day with violet scent
on it; and then the country'll be steeped in the throes of a
revolution."

Goodwin had strolled up the street and met the boy with the message.
The ox-eyed women gazed at him with shy admiration, for his type
drew them. He was big, blond, and jauntily dressed in white linen,
with buckskin ~zapatos~. His manner was courtly, with a merciful
eye. When the telegram had been delivered, and the bearer of it
dismissed with a gratuity, the relieved populace returned to the
contiguities of shade from which curiosity had drawn it--the women