That settles it, and each in turn we go spinning down in the barrel and sit on piles of freight in the unsteady lighter. The Mexican oarsmen stand up and propel the boat through the surf with long oars. It is rougher than it looks, and I suffer my first touch of sea-sickness. We understand why we are anchored so far away, and why the huge iron pier running out from San José extends such a distance seawards. I am quite faint and miserable when we reach the landing. The Baron is still so consumed with rage at the Captain's "interference," he has no eyes, happily, for my pitiable condition. I look about disconsolately for the barrel elevator, for the pier is far above our heads, and the great waves are dashing us against its iron side. To Mrs. Steele's horror, we perceive a sort of iron cage is employed in the process of elevation at this end of the journey, and soon we three are swinging in mid-air between the angry waves and the iron pier.
"Oh!" I say, breathlessly, clutching at Mrs. Steele, "what would Uncle John say if he could see me now?"
"He would probably advise you to follow his example and make your observations from the outside of the cage."
I've observed that Mrs. Steele is sometimes lacking in sympathy at trying moments.
At last we are landed, and at the end of the long pier we find a narrow-gauge train—strange, primitive little cars and very dirty withal. We make ourselves as comfortable as possible—opening the windows and each one occupying a double seat, for the carriage is only half full.
"It's not more than seventy miles, I believe," says Mrs. Steele, "but it takes five hours to get there; it's an up-hill grade all the way."
"Five hours!" I repeat, dismayed. "Oh, why did no one tell me that before? I had scarcely a mouthful of breakfast."
"We haf another breakfast at Escuintla, mees, a gude one," says Señor Noma, passing through our coach to the smoking-car. I am consoled and full of interest at the prospect, as the dingy little train moves off. Mrs. Steele and I are facing each other, while the Baron sits behind me and points out the most noteworthy features of this notable expedition. We are in the tropics truly; the heat is overpowering, and the Baron leans over the back of my seat with my rough Mazatlan fan, and uses it with a generous devotion that tires him and does not cool me.
"Do fan yourself a little," I say. "You've been the colour of a lobster ever since your interview with the Captain."
The Peruvian's brows contract—he looks ferocious in the extreme—and I am a little sorry I mentioned the Captain.