“I’ll not leave the car until we reach Panama,” affirmed Gus, and he was as good as his word.
The train moved along slowly, as if feeling its way. Gus said he could very well walk about as fast; but when Oliver suggested that he get out and try it, the stout youth begged to be excused.
On the way they passed a number of villages, none of them very large, and many of them merely a collection of bamboo huts, with a big pole in the center, and covered over for the most part with palm leaves. The natives appeared to be quite respectable, but not over fond of work. Here and there a group could be seen moving slowly about, and singing to themselves; or they were to be found in a corner dozing, or contentedly smoking their tobacco.
“It’s a lazy life,” said Oliver, “but I suppose the climate has something to do with it.”
“It has everything to do with it,” replied Mr. Whyland. “Still, the people here are more industrious than they used to be before the railroad was built.”
Once the train came to a standstill. It was a sort of a station, and on the platform stood a number of the natives of the place—tall, and not bad-looking fellows.
One of them held an immense quantity of small wares by a string over his shoulder, and was trying to dispose of them. He approached the window at which Oliver and Gus were sitting, and could hardly be made to take “no” for an answer.
“I don’t want any,” said Gus, for at least the tenth time.
“Si caballeros,” the native insisted. “Yes, gentlemen, only feety centa.”
To get rid of the fellow they at last closed the window, and then the man went off in apparent anger.