I
A fruit steamer carried me back to New Orleans.
After several months of travel in Mexico and Central America—travel marked by many delays, by many postponements until mañana, by many controversies with petty officials, and by many struggles with the pompous formality of diminutive republics—one looked forward to landing again in an Anglo-Saxon country.
The steamer docked at eight in the evening. The immigration inspector had gone home. “How soon may we land?” the passengers inquired. “To-morrow,” was the answer. We spent the next several hours filling out an inventory of our personal baggage for the benefit of the customs’ service. Foreigners answered a lengthy questionnaire containing such queries as, “Are you an anarchist?”, “Are you a polygamist?”, and “Do you believe in the overthrow of the United States’ government by force?” The only officials that were on the job were the prohibition agents. They came aboard in search of liquor. So the captain took them to his cabin, and opened a bottle of Scotch.