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Short Stories


A Bird of Bagdad

A Blackjack Bargainer

A Call Loan

A Chaparral Christmas Gift

A Chaparral Prince

A Comedy in Rubber

A Cosmopolite in a Cafe

A Departmental Case

A Dinner at--------*

A Double-Dyed Deceiver

A Fog in Santone

A Harlem Tragedy

A Lickpenny Lover

A Little Local Colour

A Little Talk about Mobs

A Madison Square Arabian Night

A Matter of Mean Elevation

A Midsummer Knight's Dream

A Midsummer Masquerade

A Municipal Report

A Newspaper Story

A Night in New Arabia

A Philistine in Bohemia

A Poor Rule

A Ramble in Aphasia

A Retrieved Reformation

A Ruler of Men

A Sacrifice Hit

A Service of Love

A Snapshot at the President

A Strange Story

A Technical Error

A Tempered Wind

According to Their Lights

After Twenty Years

An Adjustment of Nature

An Afternoon Miracle

An Apology

An Unfinished Christmas Story

An Unfinished Story

Aristocracy Versus Hash

Art and the Bronco

At Arms With Morpheus

Babes in the Jungle


Between Rounds

Bexar Scrip No. 2692

Blind Man's Holiday

Brickdust Row

Buried Treasure

By Courier

Calloway's Code


Cherchez La Femme

Christmas by Injunction

Compliments of the Season

Confessions of a Humorist

Conscience in Art

Cupid a La Carte

Cupid's Exile Number Two


Dougherty's Eye-Opener

Elsie in New York

Extradited from Bohemia

Fickle Fortune or How Gladys Hustled

Friends in San Rosario

From Each According to His Ability

From the Cabby's Seat

Georgia's Ruling


He Also Serves

Hearts and Crosses

Hearts and Hands

Helping the Other Fellow

Holding Up a Train

Hostages to Momus

Hygeia at the Solito

Innocents of Broadway

Jeff Peters as a Personal Magnet

Jimmy Hayes and Muriel

Law and Order

Let Me Feel Your Pulse

Little Speck in Garnered Fruit

Lord Oakhurst's Curse

Lost on Dress Parade

Madame Bo-Peep, of the Ranches

Makes the Whole World Kin

Mammon and the Archer

Man About Town

Masters of Arts

Memoirs of a Yellow Dog

Modern Rural Sports

Money Maze

Nemesis and the Candy Man

New York by Camp Fire Light

Next to Reading Matter

No Story

October and June

On Behalf of the Management

One Dollar's Worth

One Thousand Dollars

Out of Nazareth

Past One at Rooney's


Proof of the Pudding

Psyche and the Pskyscraper

Queries and Answers

Roads of Destiny

Roses, Ruses and Romance

Rouge et Noir

Round the Circle

Rus in Urbe

Schools and Schools

Seats of the Haughty

Shearing the Wolf



Sisters of the Golden Circle


Sociology in Serge and Straw

Sound and Fury

Springtime a La Carte

Squaring the Circle

Strictly Business

Strictly Business

Suite Homes and Their Romance

Telemachus, Friend

The Admiral

The Adventures of Shamrock Jolnes

The Assessor of Success

The Atavism of John Tom Little Bear

The Badge of Policeman O'Roon

The Brief Debut of Tildy

The Buyer From Cactus City

The Caballero's Way

The Cactus

The Caliph and the Cad

The Caliph, Cupid and the Clock

The Call of the Tame

The Chair of Philanthromathematics

The Champion of the Weather

The Church with an Overshot-Wheel

The City of Dreadful Night

The Clarion Call

The Coming-Out of Maggie

The Complete Life of John Hopkins

The Cop and the Anthem

The Count and the Wedding Guest

The Country of Elusion

The Day Resurgent

The Day We Celebrate

The Defeat of the City

The Detective Detector

The Diamond of Kali

The Discounters of Money

The Dog and the Playlet

The Door of Unrest

The Dream

The Duel

The Duplicity of Hargraves

The Easter of the Soul

The Emancipation of Billy

The Enchanted Kiss

The Enchanted Profile

The Ethics of Pig

The Exact Science of Matrimony

The Ferry of Unfulfilment

The Fifth Wheel

The Flag Paramount

The Fool-Killer

The Foreign Policy of Company 99

The Fourth in Salvador

The Friendly Call

The Furnished Room

The Gift of the Magi

The Girl and the Graft

The Girl and the Habit

The Gold That Glittered

The Greater Coney

The Green Door

The Guardian of the Accolade

The Guilty Party - An East Side Tragedy

The Halberdier of the Little Rheinschloss

The Hand that Riles the World

The Handbook of Hymen

The Harbinger

The Head-Hunter

The Hiding of Black Bill

The Higher Abdication

The Higher Pragmatism

The Hypotheses of Failure

The Indian Summer of Dry Valley Johnson

The Lady Higher Up

The Last Leaf

The Last of the Troubadours

The Lonesome Road

The Lost Blend

The Lotus And The Bottle

The Love-Philtre of Ikey Schoenstein

The Making of a New Yorker

The Man Higher Up

The Marionettes

The Marquis and Miss Sally

The Marry Month of May

The Memento

The Missing Chord

The Moment of Victory

The Octopus Marooned

The Passing of Black Eagle

The Pendulum

The Phonograph and the Graft

The Pimienta Pancakes

The Plutonian Fire

The Poet and the Peasant

The Pride of the Cities

The Princess and the Puma

The Prisoner of Zembla

The Proem

The Purple Dress

The Ransom of Mack

The Ransom of Red Chief

The Rathskeller and the Rose

The Red Roses of Tonia

The Reformation of Calliope

The Remnants of the Code

The Renaissance at Charleroi

The Roads We Take

The Robe of Peace

The Romance of a Busy Broker

The Rose of Dixie

The Rubaiyat of a Scotch Highball

The Rubber Plant's Story

The Shamrock and the Palm

The Shocks of Doom

The Skylight Room

The Sleuths

The Snow Man

The Social Triangle

The Song and the Sergeant

The Sparrows in Madison Square

The Sphinx Apple

The Tale of a Tainted Tenner

The Theory and the Hound

The Thing's the Play

The Third Ingredient

The Trimmed Lamp

The Unknown Quantity

The Unprofitable Servant

The Venturers

The Vitagraphoscope

The Voice of the City

The Whirligig of Life

The World and the Door

Thimble, Thimble


To Him Who Waits

Tobin's Palm

Tommy's Burglar

Tracked to Doom

Transformation of Martin Burney

Transients in Arcadia

Two Recalls

Two Renegades

Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen

Ulysses and the Dogman

Vanity and Some Sables

What You Want

While the Auto Waits

Whistling Dick's Christmas Stocking

Witches' Loaves

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 Senor~ Goodwin. ~Ha
venido un telegrafo por el!~"

The word passed quickly. Telegrams do not come to any one in
Coralio. The cry for Senor 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
dispatch. Knots of women with complexions varying from palest olive
to deepest brown gathered at street corners and plaintively carolled:
"~Un telegrafo por Senor~ Goodwin!" The ~comandante~, Don Senor
el Coronel Encarnacion 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 Senor 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 fo their art and

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

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
to their baking in the mud ovens under the orange-trees, or to the
interminable combing of their long, straight hair; the men to their
cigarettes and gossip in the cantinas.

Goodwin sat on Keogh's doorstep, and read his telegram. It was from
Bob Englehart, an American, who lived in San Mateo, the capital city
of Anchuria, eighty miles in the interior. Englehart was a gold
miner, an ardent revolutionist and "good people." That he was a man
of resource and imagination was proven by the telegram he had sent.
It had had been his task to send a confidential message to his friend
in Coralio. This could not have been accomplished in either Spanish
or English, for the eye politic in Anchuria was an active one. But
Englehart was a diplomatist. There existed but one code upon which
he might make requisition with promise of safety--the great and
potent code of Slang. So, here is the message that slipped,
unconstrued, through the fingers of curious officials, and came
to the eye of Goodwin:

"His Nibs skedaddled yesterday per jack-rabbit line with all the
coin in the kitty and the bundle of muslin he's spoony about. The
boodle is six figures short. Our crowd in good shape, but we need
the spondulicks. You collar it. The main guy and the dry goods
are headed for the briny. You to know what to do.


This screed, remarkable as it was, had no mystery for Goodwin.
He was the most successful of the small advance-guard of speculative
Americans that had invaded Anchuria, and he had not reached that
enviable pinnacle without having well exercised the arts of foresight
and deduction. He had taken up political intrigue as a matter of
business. He was acute enough to wield a certain influence among
the leading schemers, and he was prosperous enough to be able to
purchase the respect of the petty-officeholders. There was always
a revolutionary party; and to it he had allied himself; for the
adherents of a new administration received the rewards of their
labors. There was now a Liberal party seeking to overturn President
Miraflores. If the wheel successfully revolved, Goodwin stood to win
a concession to 30,000 manzanas of the finest coffee lands in the
interior. Certain incidents in the recent career of President
Miraflores had excited a shrewd suspicion in Goodwin's mind that the
government was near a dissolution from another cause than that of a
revolution, and now Englehart's telegram had come as a corroboration
of his wisdom.

The telegram, which had remained unintelligible to the Anchurian
linguists who had applied to it in vain their knowledge of Spanish
and elemental English, conveyed a stimulating piece of news to
Goodwin's understanding. It informed him that the president of the
republic had decamped from the capital city with the contents of the
treasury. Furthermore, that he was accompanied in his flight by that
winning adventuress Isabel Guilbert, the opera singer, whose troupe
of performers had been entertained by the president at San Mateo
during the past month on a scale less modest than that with which
royal visitors are often content. The reference to the "jackrabbit
line" could mean nothing else than the mule-back system of transport
that prevailed between Coralio and the capital. The hint that the
"boodle" was "six figures short" made the condition of the national
treasury lamentably clear. Also it was convincingly true that the
ingoing party--its way now made a pacific one--would need the
"spondulicks." Unless its pledges should be fulfilled, and the
spoils held for the delectation of the victors, precarious indeed,
would be the position of the new government. Therefore it was
exceeding necessary to "collar the main guy," and recapture the
sinews of war and government.

Goodwin handed the message to Keogh.

"Read that, Billy," he said. "It's from Bob Englehart. Can you
manage the cipher?"

Keogh sat in the other half of the doorway, and carefully perused
the telegram.

"'Tis not a cipher," he said, finally. "'Tis what they call
literature, and that's a system of language put in the mouths
of people that they've never been introduced to by writers of
imagination. The magazines invented it, but I never knew before that
President 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, now
that the Western Union indorses it, it won't be long till a race of
people will spring up that speaks it."

"You're running too much to philology, Billy," said Goodwin. "Do you
make out the meaning of it?"

"Sure," replied the philosopher of Fortune. "All languages come easy
to the man who must know 'em. I've even failed to misunderstand an
order to evacuate in classical Chinese when it was backed up by the
muzzle of a breech-loader. This little literary essay I hold in my
hands 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,

"You do not," interrupted Keogh. "You've got a fine sporting game
mixed 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 tell
you 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: 'Goose
and Gander!' They say: 'How many miles is it to London town?' We
say: '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 game

"I catch the idea," said Goodwin. "It won't do to let the goose
and gander slip through your fingers, Billy; their feathers are too
valuable. Our crowd is prepared and able to step into the shoes
of the government at once; but with the treasury empty we'd stay
in power about as long as a tenderfoot would stick on an untamed
bronco. We must play the fox on every foot of the coast to prevent
their getting out of the country."

"By the mule-back schedule," said Keogh, "it's five days down from
San Mateo. We've got plenty of time to set our outposts. There's
only three places on the coast where they can hope to sail from--here
and 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 three
moves. Oh, goosey, goosey, gander, whither do you wander? By the
blessing of the literary telegraph the boodle of this benighted
fatherland shall be preserved to the honest political party that
is seeking to overthrow it."

The situation had been justly outlined by Keogh. The down trail
from 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 trail
climbed appalling mountains, wound like a rotten string about the
brows of breathless precipices, plunged through chilling snow-fed
streams, and wriggled like a snake through sunless forests teeming
with menacing insect and animal life. After descending to the
foothills 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 breadth
of alluvial coast. Here was the flora ofthe tropics in its rankest
and most prodigal growth. Spaces here and there had been wrested
from 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 no
road was cut a serpent could scarcely make its way through the tangle
of vines and creepers. Across the treacherous mangrove swamps few
things without wings could safely pass. Therefore the fugitives
could hope to reach the coast only by one of the routes named.

"Keep the matter quiet, Billy," advised Goodwin. "We don't want
the Ins to know that the president is in flight. I suppose Bob's
information is something of a scoop in the capital as yet. Otherwise
he would not have tried to make his message a confidential one; and,
besides, everybody would have heard the news. I'm going around now
to see Dr. Zavalla, and start a man up the trail to cut the telegraph

As Goodwin rose, Keogh threw his hat upon the grass by the door and
expelled a tremendous sigh.

"What's the trouble, Billy?" asked Goodwin, pausing. "That's the
first time I heard you sigh."

"'Tis the last," said Keogh. "With that sorrowful puff of wind
I resign myself to a life of praiseworthy but harassing honesty.
What are tintypes, if you please, to the opportunities of the great
and hilarious class of ganders and geese? Not that I would be a
president, 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 addicting
myself to photographing a nation instead of running away with it.
Frank, did you ever see the 'bundle of muslin' that His Excellency
has wrapped up and carried off?"

"Isabel Guilbert?" said Goodwin, laughing. "No, I never did. From
what I've heard of her, though, I imagine that she wouldn't stick at
anything to carry her point. Don't get romantic, Billy. Sometimes
I 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 all
the ladies of mythology, sculpture, and fiction reduced to chromos.
They say she can look at a man once, and he'll turn monkey and climb
trees to pick coconuts for her. Think of that president man with
Lord know how many hundreds of thousands of dollars in one hand,
and this muslin siren in the other, galloping down the hill on a
sympathetic mule amid songbirds and flowers! And here is Billy
Keogh, because he is virtuous, condemned to the unprofitable swindle
of 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 envying
a gander. Maybe the enchanting Guilbert will take a fancy to you and
your tintypes after we impoverish her royal escort."

"She could do worse," reflected Keogh; "but she won't. 'Tis not
a tintype gallery, but a gallery of the gods that she's fitted to
adorn. 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 the
work." And Keogh plunged for the rear of the "gallery," whistling
gaily in a spontaneous way that belied his recent sigh over the
questionable good luck of the flying president.

Goodwin turned from the main street into a much narrower one that
intersected 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 the
police. Stone sidewalks, little more than a ledge in width, ran
along the base of the mean and monotonous adobe houses. At the
outskirts of the village these streets dwindled to nothing; and here
were set the palm-thatched huts of the Caribs and the poorer natives,
and the shabby cabins of negroes from Jamaica and the West India
islands. A few structures raised their heads above the red-tiled
roofs of the one-story houses--the bell tower of the ~Calaboza~,
the Hotel de los Extranjeros, the residence of the Vesuvius Fruit
Company's agent, the store and residence of Bernard Brannigan,
a ruined cathedral in which Columbus had once set foot, and, most
imposing of all, the Casa Morena--the summer "White House" of
the President of Anchuria. On the principal street running along
the beach--the Broadway of Coralio--were the larger stores, the
government ~bodega~ and post-office, the ~cuartel~, the rum-shops
and the market place.

On his way Goodwin passed the house of Bernard Brannigan. It was a
modern wooden building, two stories in height. The ground floor was
occupied by Brannigan's store, the upper one contained the living
apartments. A wide cool porch ran around the house half way up its
outer walls. A handsome, vivacious girl neatly dressed in flowing
white leaned over the railing and smiled down upon Goodwin. She was
no darker than many an Andalusian of high descent; and she sparkled
and glowed like a tropical moonlight.

"Good evening, Miss Paula," said Goodwin, taking off his hat, with
his ready smile. There was little difference in his manner whether
he addressed women or men. Everybody in Coralio liked to receive
the salutation of the big American.

"Is there any news, Mr. Goodwin? Please don't say no. Isn't it
warm? I feel just like Mariana in her moated grange--or was it a
range?--it's hot enough."

"No, there's no news to tell, I believe," said Goodwin, with a
mischievous look in his eye, "except that old Geddie is getting
grumpier and crosser every day. If something doesn't happen to
relieve his mind I'll have to quit smoking on his back porch--and
there'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 blood
had brought to Paula a certain shyness that was an adornment to
the other half of her demonstrative nature.

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