V
By chance, on my first evening in Guatemala City, I was held up by a highwayman.
I was rambling about unaccustomed streets, when a polite little brown gentleman stepped out of a doorway, poked a revolver into my ribs, and said courteously:
“Pardon, señor. Please to raise both the hands above the head, and to tell me in which pocket I shall find your watch and your money.”
My watch was one of those cheap things which the traveler always carries for such an emergency. My money formed a large wad, but it was all in Guatemalan currency, and I had my doubts as to whether my assailant would accept it. Back in Tapachula the Guatemalan Consul, having viséd my passport, had refused the moth-eaten bills of his own country, demanding American greenbacks, but finally compromising upon Mexican gold. The highwayman, however, was too polite to refuse.
“I thank you greatly, señor,” he said. “Again I beg your pardon, and bid you adios.”
Covering me with the revolver, he backed around a corner. When I looked to see where he had gone, he was running furiously down the dark street. He had taken a hundred and fourteen Guatemalan dollars, or about ninety cents in American coinage.