"Fox-in-the-Morning"

by O. Henry

　　

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Coralio reclined, in the mid-day heat, like some vacuous beautylounging in a guarded harem. The town lay at the sea's edge ona strip of alluvial coast. It was set like a little pearl in anemerald band. Behind it, and seeming almost to topple, imminent,above it, rose the sea-following range of the Cordilleras. In frontthe sea was spread, a smiling jailer, but even more incorruptiblethan the frowning mountains. The waves swished along the smoothbeach; the parrots screamed in the orange and ceiba-trees; the palmswaved their limber fronds foolishly like an awkward chorus at theprima donna's cue to enter. Suddenly the town was full of excitement. A native boy dashed downa grass-grown street, shrieking: "~Busca el Senor~ Goodwin. ~Havenido un telegrafo por el!~" The word passed quickly. Telegrams do not come to any one inCoralio. The cry for Senor Goodwin was taken up by a dozen officiousvoices. The main street running parallel to the beach becamepopulated with those who desired to expedite the delivery of thedispatch. Knots of women with complexions varying from palest oliveto deepest brown gathered at street corners and plaintively carolled:"~Un telegrafo por Senor~ Goodwin!" The ~comandante~, Don Senorel Coronel Encarnacion Rios, who was loyal to the Ins and suspectedGoodwin's devotion to the Outs, hissed: "Aha!" and wrote in hissecret memorandum book the accusive fact that Senor Goodwin had onthat momentous date received a telegram. In the midst of the hullabaloo a man stepped to the door of a smallwooden building and looked out. Above the door was a sign that read"Keogh and Clancy"--a nomenclature that seemed not to be indigenousto that tropical soil. The man in the door was Billy Keogh, scoutof fortune and progress and latter-day rover of the Spanish Main.Tintypes and photographs were the weapons with which Keogh and Clancywere at that time assailing the hopeless shores. Outside the shopwere set two large frames filled with specimens fo their art andskill. Keogh leaned in the doorway, his bold and humorous countenancewearing a look of interest at the unusual influx of life and soundin the street. When the meaning of the disturbance became clearto him he placed a hand beside his mouth and shouted: "Hey! Frank!"in such a robustious voice that the feeble clamor of the natives wasdrowned and silenced. Fifty yards away, on the seaward side of the street, stood theabode of the consul for the United States. Out from the door ofthis building tumbled Goodwin at the call. He had been smokingwith 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 ofa telegram that's come for you. You want to be careful about thesethings, my boy. It won't do to trifle with the feelings of the publicthis way. You'll be getting a pink note some day with violet scenton it; and then the country'll be steeped in the throes of arevolution." 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 typedrew them. He was big, blond, and jauntily dressed in white linen,with buckskin ~zapatos~. His manner was courtly, with a mercifuleye. When the telegram had been delivered, and the bearer of itdismissed with a gratuity, the relieved populace returned to thecontiguities of shade from which curiosity had drawn it--the womento their baking in the mud ovens under the orange-trees, or to theinterminable combing of their long, straight hair; the men to theircigarettes and gossip in the cantinas. Goodwin sat on Keogh's doorstep, and read his telegram. It was fromBob Englehart, an American, who lived in San Mateo, the capital cityof Anchuria, eighty miles in the interior. Englehart was a goldminer, an ardent revolutionist and "good people." That he was a manof resource and imagination was proven by the telegram he had sent.It had had been his task to send a confidential message to his friendin Coralio. This could not have been accomplished in either Spanishor English, for the eye politic in Anchuria was an active one. ButEnglehart was a diplomatist. There existed but one code upon whichhe might make requisition with promise of safety--the great andpotent code of Slang. So, here is the message that slipped,unconstrued, through the fingers of curious officials, and cameto the eye of Goodwin: "His Nibs skedaddled yesterday per jack-rabbit line with all thecoin in the kitty and the bundle of muslin he's spoony about. Theboodle is six figures short. Our crowd in good shape, but we needthe spondulicks. You collar it. The main guy and the dry goodsare headed for the briny. You to know what to do. BOB." This screed, remarkable as it was, had no mystery for Goodwin.He was the most successful of the small advance-guard of speculativeAmericans that had invaded Anchuria, and he had not reached thatenviable pinnacle without having well exercised the arts of foresightand deduction. He had taken up political intrigue as a matter ofbusiness. He was acute enough to wield a certain influence amongthe leading schemers, and he was prosperous enough to be able topurchase the respect of the petty-officeholders. There was alwaysa revolutionary party; and to it he had allied himself; for theadherents of a new administration received the rewards of theirlabors. There was now a Liberal party seeking to overturn PresidentMiraflores. If the wheel successfully revolved, Goodwin stood to wina concession to 30,000 manzanas of the finest coffee lands in theinterior. Certain incidents in the recent career of PresidentMiraflores had excited a shrewd suspicion in Goodwin's mind that thegovernment was near a dissolution from another cause than that of arevolution, and now Englehart's telegram had come as a corroborationof his wisdom. The telegram, which had remained unintelligible to the Anchurianlinguists who had applied to it in vain their knowledge of Spanishand elemental English, conveyed a stimulating piece of news toGoodwin's understanding. It informed him that the president of therepublic had decamped from the capital city with the contents of thetreasury. Furthermore, that he was accompanied in his flight by thatwinning adventuress Isabel Guilbert, the opera singer, whose troupeof performers had been entertained by the president at San Mateoduring the past month on a scale less modest than that with whichroyal visitors are often content. The reference to the "jackrabbitline" could mean nothing else than the mule-back system of transportthat prevailed between Coralio and the capital. The hint that the"boodle" was "six figures short" made the condition of the nationaltreasury lamentably clear. Also it was convincingly true that theingoing party--its way now made a pacific one--would need the"spondulicks." Unless its pledges should be fulfilled, and thespoils held for the delectation of the victors, precarious indeed,would be the position of the new government. Therefore it wasexceeding necessary to "collar the main guy," and recapture thesinews of war and government. Goodwin handed the message to Keogh. "Read that, Billy," he said. "It's from Bob Englehart. Can youmanage the cipher?" Keogh sat in the other half of the doorway, and carefully perusedthe telegram. "'Tis not a cipher," he said, finally. "'Tis what they callliterature, and that's a system of language put in the mouthsof people that they've never been introduced to by writers ofimagination. The magazines invented it, but I never knew before thatPresident Norvin Green had stamped it with the seal of his approval.'Tis now no longer literature, but language. The dictionaries tried,but they couldn't make it go for anything but dialect. Sure, nowthat the Western Union indorses it, it won't be long till a race ofpeople will spring up that speaks it." "You're running too much to philology, Billy," said Goodwin. "Do youmake out the meaning of it?" "Sure," replied the philosopher of Fortune. "All languages come easyto the man who must know 'em. I've even failed to misunderstand anorder to evacuate in classical Chinese when it was backed up by themuzzle of a breech-loader. This little literary essay I hold in myhands means a game of Fox-in-the-Morning. Ever play that, Frank,when you was a kid?" "I think so," said Goodwin, laughing. "You join hands all 'round,and--" "You do not," interrupted Keogh. "You've got a fine sporting gamemixed up in your head with 'All Around the Rosebush.' The spirit of'Fox-in-the-Morning' is opposed to the holding of hands. I'll tellyou how it's played. This president man and his companion in play,they stand up over in San Mateo, ready for the run, and shout:"Fox-in-the-Morning!' Me and you, standing here, we say: 'Gooseand Gander!' They say: 'How many miles is it to London town?' Wesay: 'Only a few, if your legs are long enough. How many comes out?'They say: 'More than you're able to catch.' And then the gamecommences." "I catch the idea," said Goodwin. "It won't do to let the gooseand gander slip through your fingers, Billy; their feathers are toovaluable. Our crowd is prepared and able to step into the shoesof the government at once; but with the treasury empty we'd stayin power about as long as a tenderfoot would stick on an untamedbronco. We must play the fox on every foot of the coast to preventtheir getting out of the country." "By the mule-back schedule," said Keogh, "it's five days down fromSan Mateo. We've got plenty of time to set our outposts. There'sonly three places on the coast where they can hope to sail from--hereand Solitas and Alazan. They're the only points we'll have to guard.It's as easy as a chess problem--fox to play, and mate in threemoves. Oh, goosey, goosey, gander, whither do you wander? By theblessing of the literary telegraph the boodle of this benightedfatherland shall be preserved to the honest political party thatis seeking to overthrow it." The situation had been justly outlined by Keogh. The down trailfrom the capital was at all times a weary road to travel. A jiggety-joggety journey it was; ice-cold and hot, wet and dry. The trailclimbed appalling mountains, wound like a rotten string about thebrows of breathless precipices, plunged through chilling snow-fedstreams, and wriggled like a snake through sunless forests teemingwith menacing insect and animal life. After descending to thefoothills it turned to a trident, the central prong ending at Alazan.Another branched off to Coralio; the third penetrated to Solitas.Between the sea and the foothills stretched the five miles breadthof alluvial coast. Here was the flora ofthe tropics in its rankestand most prodigal growth. Spaces here and there had been wrestedfrom the jungle and planted with bananas and cane and orange groves.The rest was a riot of wild vegetation, the home of monkeys, tapirs,jaguars, alligators, and prodigious reptiles and insects. Where noroad was cut a serpent could scarcely make its way through the tangleof vines and creepers. Across the treacherous mangrove swamps fewthings without wings could safely pass. Therefore the fugitivescould hope to reach the coast only by one of the routes named. "Keep the matter quiet, Billy," advised Goodwin. "We don't wantthe Ins to know that the president is in flight. I suppose Bob'sinformation is something of a scoop in the capital as yet. Otherwisehe would not have tried to make his message a confidential one; and,besides, everybody would have heard the news. I'm going around nowto see Dr. Zavalla, and start a man up the trail to cut the telegraphwire." As Goodwin rose, Keogh threw his hat upon the grass by the door andexpelled a tremendous sigh. "What's the trouble, Billy?" asked Goodwin, pausing. "That's thefirst time I heard you sigh." "'Tis the last," said Keogh. "With that sorrowful puff of windI resign myself to a life of praiseworthy but harassing honesty.What are tintypes, if you please, to the opportunities of the greatand hilarious class of ganders and geese? Not that I would be apresident, Frank--and the boodle he's got is too big for me to handle--but in some ways I feel my conscience hurting me for addictingmyself to photographing a nation instead of running away with it.Frank, did you ever see the 'bundle of muslin' that His Excellencyhas wrapped up and carried off?" "Isabel Guilbert?" said Goodwin, laughing. "No, I never did. Fromwhat I've heard of her, though, I imagine that she wouldn't stick atanything to carry her point. Don't get romantic, Billy. SometimesI begin to fear that there's Irish blood in your ancestry." "I never saw her either," went on Keogh; "but they say she's got allthe ladies of mythology, sculpture, and fiction reduced to chromos.They say she can look at a man once, and he'll turn monkey and climbtrees to pick coconuts for her. Think of that president man withLord know how many hundreds of thousands of dollars in one hand,and this muslin siren in the other, galloping down the hill on asympathetic mule amid songbirds and flowers! And here is BillyKeogh, because he is virtuous, condemned to the unprofitable swindleof slandering the faces of missing links on tin for an honest living!'Tis an injustice of nature." "Cheer up," said Goodwin. "You are a pretty poor fox to be envyinga gander. Maybe the enchanting Guilbert will take a fancy to you andyour tintypes after we impoverish her royal escort." "She could do worse," reflected Keogh; "but she won't. 'Tis nota tintype gallery, but a gallery of the gods that she's fitted toadorn. She's a very wicked lady, and the president man is in luck.But I hear Clancy swearing in the back room for having to do all thework." And Keogh plunged for the rear of the "gallery," whistlinggaily in a spontaneous way that belied his recent sigh over thequestionable good luck of the flying president. Goodwin turned from the main street into a much narrower one thatintersected it at a right angle. These side streets were covered by a growth of thick, rank grass,which was kept to a navigable shortness by the machetes of thepolice. Stone sidewalks, little more than a ledge in width, ranalong the base of the mean and monotonous adobe houses. At theoutskirts of the village these streets dwindled to nothing; and herewere set the palm-thatched huts of the Caribs and the poorer natives,and the shabby cabins of negroes from Jamaica and the West Indiaislands. A few structures raised their heads above the red-tiledroofs of the one-story houses--the bell tower of the ~Calaboza~,the Hotel de los Extranjeros, the residence of the Vesuvius FruitCompany's agent, the store and residence of Bernard Brannigan,a ruined cathedral in which Columbus had once set foot, and, mostimposing of all, the Casa Morena--the summer "White House" ofthe President of Anchuria. On the principal street running alongthe beach--the Broadway of Coralio--were the larger stores, thegovernment ~bodega~ and post-office, the ~cuartel~, the rum-shopsand the market place. On his way Goodwin passed the house of Bernard Brannigan. It was amodern wooden building, two stories in height. The ground floor wasoccupied by Brannigan's store, the upper one contained the livingapartments. A wide cool porch ran around the house half way up itsouter walls. A handsome, vivacious girl neatly dressed in flowingwhite leaned over the railing and smiled down upon Goodwin. She wasno darker than many an Andalusian of high descent; and she sparkledand glowed like a tropical moonlight. "Good evening, Miss Paula," said Goodwin, taking off his hat, withhis ready smile. There was little difference in his manner whetherhe addressed women or men. Everybody in Coralio liked to receivethe salutation of the big American. "Is there any news, Mr. Goodwin? Please don't say no. Isn't itwarm? I feel just like Mariana in her moated grange--or was it arange?--it's hot enough." "No, there's no news to tell, I believe," said Goodwin, with amischievous look in his eye, "except that old Geddie is gettinggrumpier and crosser every day. If something doesn't happen torelieve his mind I'll have to quit smoking on his back porch--andthere's no other place available that is cool enough." "He isn't grumpy," said Paula Brannigan, impulsively, "when he--" But she ceased suddenly, and drew back with a deepening color;for her mother had been a ~mestizo~ lady, and the Spanish bloodhad brought to Paula a certain shyness that was an adornment tothe other half of her demonstrative nature.

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