There is a quaint old theory that man may have twosouls—a peripheral one which serves ordinarily， and acentral one which is stirred only at certain times， but thenwith activity and vigor. While under the domination ofthe former a man will shave， vote， pay taxes， give money tohis family， buy subscription books and comport himself onthe average plan. But let the central soul suddenly becomedominant， and he may， in the twinkling of an eye， turnupon the partner of his joys with furious execration； hemay change his politics while you could snap your fingers；he may deal out deadly insult to his dearest friend； he mayget him， instanter， to a monastery or a dance hall； he mayelope， or hang himself—or he may write a song or poem，or kiss his wife unasked， or give his funds to the search ofa microbe. Then the peripheral soul will return； and wehave our safe， sane citizen again. It is but the revolt of theEgo against Order； and its effect is to shake up the atomsonly that they may settle where they belong.
Geddie’s revulsion had been a mild one—no more thana swim in a summer sea after so inglorious an object as adrifting bottle. And now he was himself again. Upon hisdesk， ready for the post， was a letter to his governmenttendering his resignation as consul， to be effective as soonas another could be appointed in his place. For BernardBrannigan， who never did things in a half-way manner， wasto take Geddie at once for a partner in his very profitableand various enterprises； and Paula was happily engaged inplans for refurnishing and decorating the upper story ofthe Brannigan house.
The consul rose from his hammock when he saw theconspicuous stranger at this door.
“Keep your seat， old man，” said the visitor， with an airywave of his large hand. “My name’s Smith； and I’ve comein a yacht. You are the consul—is that right？ A big， coolguy on the beach directed me here. Thought I’d pay myrespects to the flag.”
“Sit down， said Geddie. “I’ve been admiring your craftever since it came in sight. Looks like a fast sailer. What’sher tonnage？”
“Search me！” said Smith. “I don’t know what she weighsin at. But she’s got a tidy gait. The Rambler—that’s hername—don’t take the dust of anything afloat. This is myfirst trip on her. I’m taking a squint along this coast justto get an idea of the countries where the rubber and redpepper and revolutions come from. I had no idea therewas so much scenery down here. Why， Central Park ain’tin it with this neck of the woods. I’m from New York.
They get monkeys， and coconuts， and parrots downhere—is that right？”
“We have them all，” said Geddie. “I’m quite sure thatour fauna and flora would take a prize over Central Park.”
“Maybe they would，” admitted Smith， cheerfully. “Ihaven’t seen them yet. But I guess you’ve got us skinnedon the animal and vegetation question. You don’t havemuch travel here， do you？”
“Travel？” queried the consul. “I suppose you meanpassengers on steamers. No； very few people land inCoralio. An investor now and then—tourists and sightseersgenerally go further down the coast to one of the largertowns where there is a harbor.”
“I see a ship out there loading up with bananas，” saidSmith. “Any passengers come on her？”
“That’s the Karlesfin，” said the consul. “She’s a trampfruiter—made her last trip to New York， I believe. No；she brought no passengers. I saw her boat come ashore，and there was no one. About the only exciting recreationwe have here is watching steamers when they arrive； and apassenger on one of them generally causes the whole townto turn out. If you are going to remain in Coralio a while，Mr. Smith， I’ll be glad to take you around to meet somepeople. There are four or five American chaps that aregood to know， besides the native high-fliers.”
“Thanks，” said the yachtsman， “but I wouldn’t put youthe trouble. I’d like to meet the guys you speak of， but Iwon’t be here long enough to do much knocking around.
That cool gent on the beach spoke of a doctor； can you tellme where to find him？ The Rambler ain’t quite as steadyon her feet as a Broadway hotel； and a fellow gets a touchof seasickness now and then. Thought I’d strike the croakerfor a handful of the little sugar pills， in case I need ’em.”
“You will be apt to find Doctor Gregg at the hotel，” saidthe consul. “You can see it from the door—it’s that twostorybuilding with the balcony， where the orange-treesare.”
The Hotel de los Extranjeros was a dreary hostelry， ingreat disuse both by strangers and friends. It stood at acorner of the Street of the Holy Sepulchre. A grove ofsmall orange-trees crowded against one side of it， enclosedby a low， rock wall over which a tall man might easily step.
The house was of plastered adobe， stained a hundredshades of color by the salt breeze and the sun. Upon itsupper balcony opened a central door and two windowscontaining broad jalousies instead of sashes.
The lower floor communicated by two doorways withthe narrow， rock-paved sidewalk. The pulperia—ordrinking shop—of the proprietess， Madama TimoteaOrtiz， occupied the ground floor. On the bottles of brandy，anisada， Scotch “smoke，” and inexpensive wines behindthe little counter the dust lay thick save where the fingersof infrequent customers had left irregular prints. Theupper story contained four or five guest-rooms which wererarely put to their destined use. Sometimes a fruitgrower，riding in from his plantation to confer with his agent，would pass a melancholy night in the dismal upperstory； sometimes a minor native official on some triflinggovernment quest would have his pomp and majestyawed by Madama’s sepulchral hospitality. But Madama satbehind her bar content， not desiring to quarrel with Fate.
If any one required meat， drink or lodging at the Hotel delos Extranjeros they had but to come， and be served. Estabueno. If they came not， why， then， they came not. Estabueno.