I dropped off in front
of Miraflores police station, keeping my feet, thanks to practice
and good luck, and dashing up through the village, dragged myself
breathlessly aboard the passenger train as its head and shoulders
had already disappeared in the tunnel.
The ticket-collector pointed out my man to me in the first
passenger coach, the "ladies' car"--he is a school-teacher and
tobacco smoke distresses him--and by the time we pulled into
Panama I had the desired information. Dinner was not to be thought
of; I had barely time to dash through the second-class gate and
back along the track to Balboa labor-train. From the docks a sand-
train carried me to Pedro Miguel.
There was a craneman in Bas Obispo "cut" whose testimony was
wanted. I reached him by two short walks and a ride. His
statements suggested the advisability of questioning his room-
mate, a towerman in Miraflores freight-yards. Luck would have it
that my chauffeur friend----was just then passing with an I. C. C.
motor-car and only a photographer for a New York weekly aboard. I
found room to squeeze in. The car raced away through the "cut," up
the declivity, and dropped me at the foot of the tower. The room-
mate referred me to a locomotive engineer and, being a towerman,
gave me the exact location of his engine. I found it at the foot
of Cucaracha slide with a train nearly loaded.
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