The Remnants of the Code

           BreakfastinCoraliowasateleven.Thereforethepeopledidnotgotomarketearly.Thelittlewoodenmarket-housestoodonapatchofshort-trimmedgrass,underthevividgreenfoliageofabread-fruittree.

           Thitheronemorningthevendersleisurelyconvened,bringingtheirwareswiththem.Aporchorplatformsixfeetwideencircledthebuilding,shadedfromthemid-morningsunbytheprojecting,grass-thatchedroof.Uponthisplatformthevenderswerewonttodisplaytheirgoods—newly-killedbeef,fish,crabs,fruitofthecountry,cassava,eggs,dulcesandhigh,totteringstacksofnativetortillasaslargearoundasthesombreroofaSpanishgrandee.

           Butonthismorningtheywhosestationslayontheseawardsideofthemarket-house,insteadofspreadingtheirmerchandiseformedthemselvesintoasoftlyjabberingandgesticulatinggroup.Forthereupontheirspaceoftheplatformwassprawled,asleep,theunbeautifulfigureof"Beelzebub"Blythe.Helayuponaraggedstripofcocoamatting,morethaneverafallenangelinappearance.Hissuitofcoarseflax,soiled,burstingattheseams,crumpledintoathousanddiversifiedwrinklesandcreases,inclosedhimabsurdly,likethegarbofsomeeffigythathadbeenstuffedinsportandthrownthereafterindignityhadbeenwroughtuponit.Butfirmlyuponthehighbridgeofhisnosereposedhisgold-rimmedglasses,thesurvivingbadgeofhisancientglory.

           Thesun’srays,reflectingquiveringlyfromtheripplingseauponhisface,andthevoicesofthemarket-menwoke"Beelzebub"Blythe.