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For
there
are
yet
tales
of
the
Spanish
Main
.
That
segment
of
continent
washed
by
the
tempestuous
Caribbean
,
and
presenting
to
the
sea
a
formidable
border
of
tropical
jungle
topped
by
the
overweening
Cordilleras
,
is
still
begirt
by
mystery
and
romance
.
In
past
times
buccaneers
and
revolutionists
roused
the
echoes
of
its
cliffs
,
and
the
condor
wheeled
perpetually
above
where
,
in
the
green
groves
,
they
made
food
for
him
with
their
matchlocks
and
toledos
.
Taken
and
retaken
by
sea
rovers
,
by
adverse
powers
and
by
sudden
uprising
of
rebellious
factions
,
the
historic
300
miles
of
adventurous
coast
has
scarcely
known
for
hundreds
of
years
whom
rightly
to
call
its
master
.
Pizarro
,
Balboa
,
Sir
Francis
Drake
,
and
Bolivar
did
what
they
could
to
make
it
a
part
of
Christendom
.
Sir
John
Morgan
,
Lafitte
and
other
eminent
swash-bucklers
bombarded
and
pounded
it
in
the
name
of
Abaddon
.
The
game
still
goes
on
.
The
guns
of
the
rovers
are
silenced
;
but
the
tintype
man
,
the
enlarged
photograph
brigand
,
the
kodaking
tourist
and
the
scouts
of
the
gentle
brigade
of
fakirs
have
found
it
out
,
and
carry
on
the
work
.
The
hucksters
of
Germany
,
France
,
and
Sicily
now
bag
its
small
change
across
their
counters
.
Gentleman
adventurers
throng
the
waiting-rooms
of
its
rulers
with
proposals
for
railways
and
concessions
.
The
little
opéra-bouffe
nations
play
at
government
and
intrigue
until
some
day
a
big
,
silent
gunboat
glides
into
the
offing
and
warns
them
not
to
break
their
toys
.
And
with
these
changes
comes
also
the
small
adventurer
,
with
empty
pockets
to
fill
,
light
of
heart
,
busy-brained
--
the
modern
fairy
prince
,
bearing
an
alarm
clock
with
which
,
more
surely
than
by
the
sentimental
kiss
,
to
awaken
the
beautiful
tropics
from
their
centuries
'
sleep
.
Generally
he
wears
a
shamrock
,
which
he
matches
pridefully
against
the
extravagant
palms
;
and
it
is
he
who
has
driven
Melpomene
to
the
wings
,
and
set
Comedy
to
dancing
before
the
footlights
of
the
Southern
Cross
.
So
,
there
is
a
little
tale
to
tell
of
many
things
.
Perhaps
to
the
promiscuous
ear
of
the
Walrus
it
shall
come
with
most
avail
;
for
in
it
there
are
indeed
shoes
and
ships
and
sealing-wax
and
cabbage-palms
and
presidents
instead
of
kings
.
Add
to
these
a
little
love
and
counterplotting
,
and
scatter
everywhere
throughout
the
maze
a
trail
of
tropical
dollars
--
dollars
warmed
no
more
by
the
torrid
sun
than
by
the
hot
palms
of
the
scouts
of
Fortune
--
and
,
after
all
,
here
seems
to
be
Life
,
itself
,
with
talk
enough
to
weary
the
most
garrulous
of
Walruses
.
Coralio
reclined
,
in
the
mid-day
heat
,
like
some
vacuous
beauty
lounging
in
a
guarded
harem
.
The
town
lay
at
the
sea
's
edge
on
a
strip
of
alluvial
coast
.
It
was
set
like
a
little
pearl
in
an
emerald
band
.
Behind
it
,
and
seeming
almost
to
topple
,
imminent
,
above
it
,
rose
the
sea-following
range
of
the
Cordilleras
.
In
front
the
sea
was
spread
,
a
smiling
jailer
,
but
even
more
incorruptible
than
the
frowning
mountains
.
The
waves
swished
along
the
smooth
beach
;
the
parrots
screamed
in
the
orange
and
ceiba-trees
;
the
palms
waved
their
limber
fronds
foolishly
like
an
awkward
chorus
at
the
prima
donna
's
cue
to
enter
.
Suddenly
the
town
was
full
of
excitement
.
A
native
boy
dashed
down
a
grass-grown
street
,
shrieking
:
"
Busca
el
Señor
Goodwin
.
Ha
venido
un
telégrafo
por
el
!
"
The
word
passed
quickly
.
Telegrams
do
not
often
come
to
anyone
in
Coralio
.
The
cry
for
Señor
Goodwin
was
taken
up
by
a
dozen
officious
voices
.
The
main
street
running
parallel
to
the
beach
became
populated
with
those
who
desired
to
expedite
the
delivery
of
the
despatch
.
Knots
of
women
with
complexions
varying
from
palest
olive
to
deepest
brown
gathered
at
street
corners
and
plaintively
carolled
:
"
Un
telégrafo
por
Señor
Goodwin
!
"
The
comandante
,
Don
Señor
el
Coronel
Encarnación
Rios
,
who
was
loyal
to
the
Ins
and
suspected
Goodwin
's
devotion
to
the
Outs
,
hissed
:
"
Aha
!
"
and
wrote
in
his
secret
memorandum
book
the
accusive
fact
that
Señor
Goodwin
had
on
that
momentous
date
received
a
telegram
.
In
the
midst
of
the
hullabaloo
a
man
stepped
to
the
door
of
a
small
wooden
building
and
looked
out
.
Above
the
door
was
a
sign
that
read
"
Keogh
and
Clancy
"
--
a
nomenclature
that
seemed
not
to
be
indigenous
to
that
tropical
soil
.
The
man
in
the
door
was
Billy
Keogh
,
scout
of
fortune
and
progress
and
latter-day
rover
of
the
Spanish
Main
.
Tintypes
and
photographs
were
the
weapons
with
which
Keogh
and
Clancy
were
at
that
time
assailing
the
hopeless
shores
.
Outside
the
shop
were
set
two
large
frames
filled
with
specimens
of
their
art
and
skill
.
