II
I landed the next morning at San Carlos, at the mouth of the San Juan River. There was nothing of interest here except an ancient Spanish fortress and J. C. Kennedy.
“They built the fortress back in 1600-and-something, or maybe it was 1700-and-something,” explained the latter. “I know it was just before I came here.”
Mr. Kennedy, a little white-haired Irish-American, who now owned a shoe-shop and pegged away himself for exercise, had twice been chased out of Nicaragua by the old tyrant, Zelaya.
“But I don’t know as I blame him so much,” he said. “I had a factory making ammunition for the revolutionists.”