II
Not possessing the private yacht, I left Tegucigalpa for Amapala one day in advance.
Bill, the hard-boiled, took me down the mountain road to San Lorenzo, where a launch was already waiting. There a member of the crew undertook to facilitate my voyage. He greeted me with a smile as I reached the end of the wharf.
“I’m the man who carried your suit-case, señor.”
“I carried it myself.”
“Did you really? Then I’ll put it on board for you.”
Since a squad of Honduran soldiers held all passengers on the wharf until the baggage was aboard, I surrendered it to him, and he placed it on the extreme edge of the stern, precariously balanced on the small end, tying it fast with the rest of the cargo, but with a flimsy piece of cord which threatened at any moment to break and spill the entire load into the Gulf of Fonseca.
“It’s all right,” he assured me. “I have my eye on it!”
Then, as the soldiers finally permitted us to embark—after an official had ascertained that my passport was properly viséd by the Honduran Minister of Foreign Relations—the officious mozo climbed upon the thwarts to offer me an unnecessary hand. “When we arrived at Amapala, señor, I’ll show you to the hotel.”
“I already know one hotel there.”