ate had hurled him
headlong down to the tropics, where flamed in his bosom a fire that
was seldom quenched. In Coralio they called him a beachcomber; but he
was, in reality, a categorical idealist who strove to anamorphosize
the dull verities of life by the means of brandy and rum. As
Beelzebub, himself, might have held in his clutch with unwitting
tenacity his harp or crown during his tremendous fall, so his
namesake had clung to his gold-rimmed eyeglasses as the only souvenir
of his lost estate. These he wore with impressiveness and distinction
while he combed beaches and extracted toll from his friends. By some
mysterious means he kept his drink-reddened face always smoothly
shaven. For the rest he sponged gracefully upon whomsoever he could
for enough to keep him pretty drunk, and sheltered from the rains and
night dews.

"Hallo, Goodwin!" called the derelict, airily. "I was hoping I'd
strike you. I wanted to see you particularly. Suppose we go where we
can talk. Of course you know there's a chap down here looking up the
money old Miraflores lost."

"Yes," said Goodwin, "I've been talking with him. Let's go into
Espada's place. I can spare you ten minutes."

They went into the _pulperia_ and sat at a little table upon stools
with rawhide tops.

"Have a drink?" said Goodwin.

"They can't bring it too quickly," said Blythe. "I've been in a
drought ever since morning. Hi--_muchacho!--el aguardiente por aca_."

"Now, what do you want to see me about?" asked Goodwin, when the
drinks were before them.

"Confound it, old man," drawled Blythe, "why do you spoil a golden
moment like this with business? I wanted to see you--well, this has
the preference." He gulped down his brandy, and gazed longingly into
the empty glass.

"Have another?" suggested Goodwin.

"Between gentlemen," said the fallen angel, "I don't quite like your
use of that word 'another.' It isn't quite delicate. But the concrete
idea that the word represents is not displeasing."

The glasses were refilled. Blythe sipped blissfully from his, as he
began to enter the state of a true idealist.

"I must trot along in a minute or two," hinted Goodwin. "Was there
anything in particular?"

Blythe did not reply at once.

"Old Losada would make it a hot country," he remarked at length,
"for the man who swiped that gripsack of treasury boodle, don't you
think?"

"Undoubtedly, he would," agreed Goodwin calmly, as he rose leisurely
to his feet. "I'll