I
The steamer plowed southward through a dazzling blue sea to Manzanillo, the port of disembarkation for Mexico City.
Despite its commercial importance, this is one of the several places on the Pacific Coast where a traveler, upon leaving his ship, takes one hasty glance at the dirty black beach and the cluster of driftwood shacks, grasps his nose firmly between thumb and forefinger, and makes a dash for the daily train that will carry him somewhere else.
As soon as a boatman had rowed us ashore, Eustace and I hastened to the telegraph office, and dispatched our message to Werner: “Foster and Eustace slain by bandits.” Then we ran for the train. But, although an excited crowd surrounded the station, there was no train in sight.
“There will be none to-day,” explained the agent. “Zamorra stopped it just outside of town, wrecked it, and shot most of the passengers.”