II
On the Pullman that carried me northward to New York, a traveling man engaged me in conversation.
“I see you’ve been to South America. I noticed the Nicaragua label on your suit-case. How’s things down there? Pretty wild bunch, ain’t they?”
And he laid aside his newspaper, which contained accounts of one lynching, one fist fight on the floor of Congress, four fashionable divorce scandals, one Ku Klux Klan outrage, sixteen robberies, two incendiary fires, seven murders, and the innumerable charges and countercharges of bribery and corruption which distinguish a presidential campaign.
III
Perhaps, since in my first chapter my destination was Panama, I ought to mention it. I stopped there for several weeks after my first flight from Mexico.
The Canal Zone, regarded as an example of what Anglo-Saxon efficiency can do to the tropics, was quite astounding. The once fever-stricken swamp had become a well-ordered garden of palm-shaded walks lined with neat cottages. The screening which inclosed each dwelling was no longer necessary. The malaria-bearing mosquito had departed. In the big ditch steamers were handled with the regularity of clockwork. They plowed into the huge locks; giant doors swung shut behind them; water poured as though by magic into the artificial pool, raising the vessels to the higher level of Gatun Lake; the doors opened; the ships steamed away toward the Pacific. Everything in the Zone ran smoothly, with the same mechanical precision that marked the operation of the Canal.
But nowhere in the Americanized territory did one find the quiet contentment of the Latin Countries. Whenever the American employees wished to enjoy life, they crossed the boundary into the Republic of Panama, to the land of music, and tinkling fountains, martini cocktails, and dark-eyed señoritas.
IV
Among the many letters awaiting me at home, there was one with a Mexican postmark. It was from the long-lost Eustace. It said: