One husky tar, with a sailor’s knack of getting acquainted, rolled up the street with a native girl on his arm, amid the cheers of his friends. He had a sandwich in one hand, and a flask in the other. She was a chubby little brown creature, in a tight-fitting red dress, and her short fat legs bulged above the tops of high, tightly-laced boots that appeared newly purchased.
“Wait a minute, sister. We’re goin’ in here an’ get you a hat. You’ll be some swell skoit when I get finished wit’ you.”
They vanished into a shop. When they emerged, the lady wore a green and yellow bonnet trimmed with purple and blue. She was leading her hero toward the village photographer’s to immortalize in tin-type this thrilling event. They came out with the photographer’s parrot. The sailor had purchased it, and was teaching it to say:
“To hell wit’ the marines!”
Gradually, as the hour of departure drew near, all would gravitate toward the saloon at the wharf, where they purchased more flasks of whiskey for the journey to their ship. The little native bartender, overwhelmed at the many orders shouted at him in a strange tongue, became completely paralyzed, whereupon every one helped himself, and tossed greenbacks across the bar. At last the S.P.’s commenced to herd the crowd toward their launch. A delinquent always came running from town at the last moment, his bag of eggs bouncing against his uniform and creating golden havoc. The little native bartender came to life to scream that two flasks had not been paid for. The escort of the lady in the red dress had a fight at the end of the wharf with several of his cronies who considered it their privilege to kiss her farewell.
“Act like gentlemen, you —— —— ——, or I’ll poke you one in the snout!”
Then, packed into their trim white craft, they were gone, leaving Amapala flooded with crisp new American greenbacks.
V
Our steamer finally came.
After our two weeks of waiting, it picked us up and landed us within eight hours at the Nicaraguan port of Corinto.