What ho!
the merry "windjammer" with her stowed sails and smell of tar
awakened within me old memories, hungry and grimy for the most
part. But this was no independent, self-respecting member of the
Wind-wafted sisterhood. Far out in the offing lay a steamer of the
same line that was to TOW the Meteor to the Golden Gate! How is
the breed of sailors fallen! The few laborers aboard would take an
occasional wheel, pick oakum, and yarn their unadventurous yarns.
As we drew near, a boat was lowered to set me aboard the steamer,
to the rail-crowding surprise of her passengers, who fancied they
had hours since seen the last of Zone and "Zoners." The captain
asserted he had nothing aboard grown nearer Greece than three
Irishmen, any one of whom--facetiousness seemed to be one of the
captain's characteristics--I might have and welcome. A few moments
later I was back aboard the tug waving farewell to steamer and
"windjammer" as they pushed away into the twilight sea, and the
Bolivar turned shoreward.
I received a "straight tip" one evening that the fugitive Greek
was hiding in a hovel on the Cruces trail. What part of the Cruces
trail, the informant did not hint; but he described the hut in
some detail. So next morning as the thick gray dawn of this
tropical land was melting into day, I descended at Bas Obispo,
through the canal to Gamboa and struck off into the dense dripping
jungle.
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