XI
On the train that carried me back from Quiriguá—through swamp, and desert and mountain—from banana-land to coffee-country—I met an Old-Timer. He had been so long in the tropics that the mosquitoes refused to bite him. Like many another, he had the rank of General, earned in some long-past revolution.
“These countries are changing,” he said regretfully. “I can remember the time when there was nothing down here but thatched huts. All the white men in those days were tropical tramps, drifting from one place to another, but they’ve mostly disappeared. This Fruit Company won’t give you a job these days unless you come down on contract, with a white collar around your neck, and a testimonial from your clergyman.
“The tramp’s gone south. And now the soldier of fortune is passing. You no sooner get a revolution started than the United States sends down a gunboat to protect American property. Things are getting so civilized around here, I sometimes think of going home and joining the Ku Klux Klan for a little excitement.”