Americans have introduced the untropical idea of
starting their trains on time, to the disgust of the "Spig" in
general and the occasional discomfiture of Americans. I dashed
wildly out through the station, across Panama's main street, down
a rugged lane to the first steps descending to the track, and
tumbled joyously onto a slowly moving train--to discover that it
was the Balboa labor-train and that the Colon passenger was
already half-way to Diablo Hill.
A Panama policeman of dusky hue, leaning against a gate-post, eyed
me drowsily as I slowly climbed the steps, mopping my brow and
staring at my watch.
"What time does that 6:35 train leave?" I demanded.
"Yo, senor," he said with ministerial dignity, shifting slowly to
the other shoulder, "no tengo conocimiento de esas cosas" (I have
no knowledge of those things).
He probably did not know there is a railroad from Panama to Colon.
It has only been in operation since 1855.
Later I found the fault lay with my brass watch.
With a perspiration up for all day I set out along the track.
Hounding Diablo Hill the realization that I was hungry came upon
me simultaneously with the thought that unless I got through the
door of Corozal hotel by 7:30 I was likely to remain so. Breakfast
over, I caught the morning supply-train to Miraflores, there to
dash through the locks for a five-minute interview.
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