I
It was evening when the train brought Eustace and myself into Mazatlán. Since the fortnightly steamer was scheduled to sail for the south at eight o’clock, we leaped into a cab, and ordered the cochero to drive like fury.
He whipped up his slumbering nags, and we rattled toward the wharf, through conventional narrow streets lined with the traditional fortress-like houses of Latin America. But—although it may have been the effect of the tropical climate—it seemed that each balcony or window was occupied by a señorita infinitely more attractive than any that had occupied the same sort of balcony or window in the same sort of dwellings in any of the previous cities.
“Whoa!” called Eustace. “In the interests of journalism, let’s have a longer look at this town!”
But before the interests of journalism were fully satisfied, the steamer whistled from the harbor, and our cochero whipped up his horses again. On we rattled until we came to the plaza. It was an unusually attractive plaza. There were royal poincianas, tinkling fountains, and—
“Whoa!” called Eustace. “In the int—”
The plaza also appeared to be inhabited by what evidently was the most abundant product of Mazatlán. But the steamer whistled again, and the whip crackled, and we careened wildly around sharp corners to the harbor. It was a delightful harbor. A semi-circle of driveway bordered it—a driveway lined with graceful cocoa-palms that whispered softly in the gentle breeze. A newly risen moon peeped through their fronds, and sparkled along the wide expanse of sea, tipping each wave with a streak of silver as the swells rolled in from the Pacific to shatter themselves in gleaming spray against the rocks before us. From the thatched cottages of the fisher-folk across the bay there drifted to us the tinkle of a guitar. And from the city behind us sounded the chimes of a cathedral clock. It was striking eight—the hour our steamer was to sail.
“Hurrah!” we shouted. “We’ve missed it!”