When
the harness was lifted there was disclosed the expected half-dozen
large raw sores. We tied the animal in the shade near hay and
water and adjourned to the station.
The coachman, a weary, unshaven Spaniard whose red eyelids showed
lack of sleep, was weeping copiously. He claimed to be a
madrileno--which was evident; that he had been a coachman in Spain
and Panama all his life without ever before having been arrested--
which was possible. He was merely one of many drivers for a
livery-stable owner in Panama. Ordered to go for the tourists, he
had called his employer's attention to the danger of crossing Zone
territory with a horse in that condition; but the owner had
ordered him to cover up the sores with pads and harness and drive
along.
It was a very sad case. Here was a poor, honest coachman
struggling to support a wife and I don't recall how many children,
but any number sounds quite reasonable in Panama, who was about to
be punished for the fault of another. The paradox of honest and
coachman did not strike me until later. He was certainly telling
the truth--you come to recognize it readily in all ordinary cases
after a few weeks in plain clothes. The real culprit was, of
course, the employer. My righteous wrath demanded that he and not
his poor serf be punished. I could not release the driver.
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