MR. BEETLE MAN

The man sat in a niche of the mountain, busily hating the Caribbean Sea.  It was quite a contract that he had undertaken, for there was a large expanse of Caribbean Sea in sight to hate; very blue, and still, and indifferent to human emotions.  However, the young man was a good steadfast hater, and he came there every day to sit in the shade of the overhanging boulder, where there was a little trickle of cool air down the slope and a little trickle of cool water from a crevice beneath the rock, to despise that placid, unimpressionable ocean and all its works and to wish that it would dry up forthwith, so that he might walk back to the blessed United States of America.  In good plain American, the young man was pretty homesick.

Two-man’s-lengths up the mountain, on the crest of the sturdy hater’s rock, the girl sat, loving the Caribbean Sea.  Hers, also, was a large contract, and she was much newer to it than was the man to his, for she had only just discovered this vantage-ground by turning accidentally into a side trail—­quite a private little side trail made by her unsuspected neighbor below—­whence one emerges from a sea of verdure into full view of the sea of azure.  For the time, she was content to rest there in the flow of the breeze and feast her eyes on that broad, unending blue which blessedly separated her from the United States of America and certain perplexities and complications comprised therein.  Presently she would resume the trail and return to the city of Caracuna, somewhere behind her.  That is, she would if she could find it, which was by no means certain.  Not that she greatly cared.  If she were really lost, they’d come out and get her.  Meantime, all she wished was to rest mind and body in the contemplation of that restful plain of cool sapphire, four thousand feet below.

But there was a spirit of mischief abroad upon that mountain slope.  It embodied itself in a puff of wind that stirred gratefully the curls above the girl’s brow.  Also, it fanned the neck of the watcher below and cunningly moved his hat from his side; not more than a few feet, indeed, but still far enough to transfer it from the shade into the glaring sun and into the view of the girl above.  The owner made no move.  If the wind wanted to blow his new panama into some lower treetop, compelling him to throw stones, perhaps to its permanent damage, in order to dislodge it, why, that was just one more cause of offense to pin to his indictment of irritation against the great island republic of Caracuna.  Such is the temper one gets into after a year in the tropics.

Like as peas are panama hats to the eyes of the inexpert; far more like than men who live under them.  For the girl, it was a direct inference that this was a hat which she knew intimately; which, indeed, she had rather maliciously eluded, riot half an hour before.  Therefore, she addressed it familiarly:  “Boo!”