“Fox-in-the-Morning”

           Coralioreclined,inthemid-dayheat,likesomevacuousbeautylounginginaguardedharem.Thetownlayatthesea’sedgeonastripofalluvialcoast.Itwassetlikealittlepearlinanemeraldband.Behindit,andseemingalmosttotopple,imminent,aboveit,rosethesea-followingrangeoftheCordilleras.Infronttheseawasspread,asmilingjailer,butevenmoreincorruptiblethanthefrowningmountains.Thewavesswishedalongthesmoothbeach;theparrotsscreamedintheorangeandceiba-trees;thepalmswavedtheirlimberfrondsfoolishlylikeanawkwardchorusattheprimadonna’scuetoenter.

           Suddenlythetownwasfullofexcitement.Anativeboydasheddownagrass-grownstreet,shrieking:"BuscaelSeñorGoodwin.Havenidountelégrafoporel!"

           Thewordpassedquickly.TelegramsdonotoftencometoanyoneinCoralio.ThecryforSeñorGoodwinwastakenupbyadozenofficiousvoices.Themainstreetrunningparalleltothebeachbecamepopulatedwiththosewhodesiredtoexpeditethedeliveryofthedespatch.Knotsofwomenwithcomplexionsvaryingfrompalestolivetodeepestbrowngatheredatstreetcornersandplaintivelycarolled:"UntelégrafoporSeñorGoodwin!"Thecomandante,DonSeñorelCoronelEncarnaciónRios,whowasloyaltotheInsandsuspectedGoodwin’sdevotiontotheOuts,hissed:"Aha!"andwroteinhissecretmemorandumbooktheaccusivefactthatSeñorGoodwinhadonthatmomentousdatereceivedatelegram.

           Inthemidstofthehullabalooamansteppedtothedoorofasmallwoodenbuildingandlookedout.