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"
I
've
got
to
do
it
--
oh
,
I
've
got
to
do
it
,
"
he
told
himself
,
aloud
.
"
If
I
had
a
quart
of
rum
I
believe
I
could
stave
it
off
yet
--
for
a
little
while
.
But
there
's
no
more
rum
for
--
'
Beelzebub
,
'
as
they
call
me
.
By
the
flames
of
Tartarus
!
if
I
'm
to
sit
at
the
right
hand
of
Satan
somebody
has
got
to
pay
the
court
expenses
.
You
'll
have
to
pony
up
,
Mr.
Frank
Goodwin
.
You
're
a
good
fellow
;
but
a
gentleman
must
draw
the
line
at
being
kicked
into
the
gutter
.
Blackmail
is
n't
a
pretty
word
,
but
it
's
the
next
station
on
the
road
I
'm
travelling
.
"
With
purpose
in
his
steps
Blythe
now
moved
rapidly
through
the
town
by
way
of
its
landward
environs
.
He
passed
through
the
squalid
quarters
of
the
improvident
negroes
and
on
beyond
the
picturesque
shacks
of
the
poorer
mestizos
.
From
many
points
along
his
course
he
could
see
,
through
the
umbrageous
glades
,
the
house
of
Frank
Goodwin
on
its
wooded
hill
.
And
as
he
crossed
the
little
bridge
over
the
lagoon
he
saw
the
old
Indian
,
Galvez
,
scrubbing
at
the
wooden
slab
that
bore
the
name
of
Miraflores
.
Beyond
the
lagoon
the
lands
of
Goodwin
began
to
slope
gently
upward
.
A
grassy
road
,
shaded
by
a
munificent
and
diverse
array
of
tropical
flora
wound
from
the
edge
of
an
outlying
banana
grove
to
the
dwelling
.
Blythe
took
this
road
with
long
and
purposeful
strides
.
Goodwin
was
seated
on
his
coolest
gallery
,
dictating
letters
to
his
secretary
,
a
sallow
and
capable
native
youth
.
The
household
adhered
to
the
American
plan
of
breakfast
;
and
that
meal
had
been
a
thing
of
the
past
for
the
better
part
of
an
hour
.
The
castaway
walked
to
the
steps
,
and
flourished
a
hand
.
"
Good
morning
,
Blythe
,
"
said
Goodwin
,
looking
up
.
"
Come
in
and
have
a
chair
.
Anything
I
can
do
for
you
?
"
"
I
want
to
speak
to
you
in
private
.
"
Goodwin
nodded
at
his
secretary
,
who
strolled
out
under
a
mango
tree
and
lit
a
cigarette
.
Blythe
took
the
chair
that
he
had
left
vacant
.
"
I
want
some
money
,
"
he
began
,
doggedly
.
