New York (N.Y.) -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Short stories
In the shade of the custom-house walls he found Mr. Hemstetter and
Rosine surrounded by a mass of gaping citizens. The customs officers
were ducking and scraping, while the captain of the _Andador_
interpreted the business of the new arrivals. Rosine looked healthy and
very much alive. She was gazing at the strange scenes around her with
amused interest. There was a faint blush upon her round cheek as she
greeted her old admirer. Mr. Hemstetter shook hands with Johnny in a
very friendly way. He was an oldish, impractical man—one of that
numerous class of erratic business men who are forever dissatisfied,
and seeking a change.
“I am very glad to see you, John—may I call you John?” he said. “Let me
thank you for your prompt answer to our postmaster’s letter of inquiry.
He volunteered to write to you on my behalf. I was looking about for
something different in the way of a business in which the profits would
be greater. I had noticed in the papers that this coast was receiving
much attention from investors. I am extremely grateful for your advice
to come. I sold out everything that I possess, and invested the
proceeds in as fine a stock of shoes as could be bought in the North.
You have a picturesque town here, John. I hope business will be as good
as your letter justifies me in expecting.”
Johnny’s agony was abbreviated by the arrival of Keogh, who hurried up
with the news that Mrs. Goodwin would be much pleased to place rooms at
the disposal of Mr. Hemstetter and his daughter. So there Mr.
Hemstetter and Rosine were at once conducted and left to recuperate
from the fatigue of the voyage, while Johnny went down to see that the
cases of shoes were safely stored in the customs warehouse pending
their examination by the officials. Keogh, grinning like a shark,
skirmished about to find Goodwin, to instruct him not to expose to Mr.
Hemstetter the true state of Coralio as a shoe market until Johnny had
been given a chance to redeem the situation, if such a thing were
possible.
That night the consul and Keogh held a desperate consultation on the
breezy porch of the consulate.
“Send ’em back home,” began Keogh, reading Johnny’s thoughts.
“I would,” said Johnny, after a little silence; “but I’ve been lying to
you, Billy.”
“All right about that,” said Keogh, affably.
“I’ve told you hundreds of times,” said Johnny, slowly, “that I had
forgotten that girl, haven’t I?”
“About three hundred and seventy-five,” admitted the monument of
patience.
“I lied,” repeated the consul, “every time. I never forgot her for one
minute. I was an obstinate ass for running away just because she said
‘No’ once. And I was too proud a fool to go back. I talked with Rosine
a few minutes this evening up at Goodwin’s. I found out one thing. You
remember that farmer fellow who was always after her?”
“Dink Pawson?” asked Keogh.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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