I looked them over and returned to the
porch rocker and the last chapters of the novel.
A meek touch on the leg awoke me at four next morning. I looked up
to see dimly a black face under a khaki helmet bent over me
whispering, "It de time, sah," and fade noiselessly away. It was
the frontier policeman carrying out his orders of the night
before. For once there was not a carriage in sight. I stumbled
sleepily down into Panama and for some distance along Avenida
Central before I was able to hail an all night hawk chasing a worn
little wreck of a horse along the macadam. I spread my lanky form
over the worn cushions and we spavined along the graveled boundary
line, past the Chinese cemetery where John can preserve and burn
joss to his ancestors to the end of time, out through East Balboa
just awakening to life, and reached Balboa docks as day was
breaking. I was not long there, and the equine caricature ambled
the three miles back to town in what seemed reasonable time,
considering. As we turned again into Avenida Central my watch told
me there was time and to spare to catch the morning passenger. I
was not a little surprised therefore to hear just then two sharp
rings on the station gong. I dived headlong into the station and
brought up against a locked gate, caught a glimpse of two or three
ladies weeping and the tail of the passenger disappearing under
the bridge.
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