Here I paused to kill a lizard
or to watch the clumsy march of one of the huge purple and many-
colored land-crabs, there to gaze away across a jungled valley
soft and fuzzy in the humid air like some Corot painting.
I even sailed for San Francisco in the quest. For of course each
outgoing ship must be searched. One day I had word that a
"windjammer" was about to sail; and racing out to Balboa I was
soon set aboard the fore and aft schooner Meteor far out in the
bay. When I plunged down into the cabin the peeled-headed German
captain was seated at a table before a heap of "Spig" dollars,
paying off his black shore hands. He solemnly asserted he had no
Greek aboard, and still more solemnly swore that if he found one
stowed away he would turn him over to the police in San Francisco
--which was kind of him but would not have helped matters. There
are several men running gaily about San Francisco streets who
would be very welcome in certain quarters on the Zone and sure of
lodging and food for a long time to come.
By this time the tug Bolivar had us in tow, the captain went
racing over his ship like any of his crew, tugging at the ropes,
and we were gliding out across Panama bay, past the little
greening islands, the curving panorama of the city and Ancon hill
growing smaller and smaller behind--bound for 'Frisco.
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