At 7.56, we passed the plaza, but paused not in the interests of journalism.
At 8.00, we sailed out of Mazatlán’s attractive harbor, where the moonlight sparkled along the wide expanse of sea, and the tinkle of a guitar came to us from the thatched cottages of the fisher-folk, as though it were an accompaniment to the chimes of the old cathedral clock that we knew so well. Eight o’clock! Herminia and Lolita would be strolling in the plaza, where the strains of the band, as though from an orchestra off-stage, blended with the ripple of the fountain, with the voices of youths and maidens and the whispering of the palm trees!
At 8.01, Eustace discovered three peanuts in his pocket, and we solemnly dumped them overboard.
CHAPTER VII
IN THE DAYS OF CARRANZA
I
The steamer plowed southward through a dazzling blue sea to Manzanillo, the port of disembarkation for Mexico City.
Despite its commercial importance, this is one of the several places on the Pacific Coast where a traveler, upon leaving his ship, takes one hasty glance at the dirty black beach and the cluster of driftwood shacks, grasps his nose firmly between thumb and forefinger, and makes a dash for the daily train that will carry him somewhere else.
As soon as a boatman had rowed us ashore, Eustace and I hastened to the telegraph office, and dispatched our message to Werner: “Foster and Eustace slain by bandits.” Then we ran for the train. But, although an excited crowd surrounded the station, there was no train in sight.
“There will be none to-day,” explained the agent. “Zamorra stopped it just outside of town, wrecked it, and shot most of the passengers.”