"Oh, it is a healthy town nowadays. Our people have cleaned it up like a new parlor."
"I mean the police—" began Walter, but this sounded so suspicious that he blushed, thought it hardly worth while explaining, and concluded, "I guess I can find a bed somewhere."
Mr. Naughton whistled, cocked a scrutinizing eye, and observed:
"So you got into trouble with the Spiggoty police? Anything serious? I won't give you away."
"Nothing against my morals," smiled Walter. "My manners were disliked."
"I'll take your word for it. One of my minor ambitions has been to punch the head of a Panamanian policeman. The chesty little beggars!" drawled Mr. Naughton. "You don't belong with the laborers, Goodwin, and you wouldn't like their quarters. I can find you a place to sleep at our bachelor hotel, and you can get commissary meals at thirty cents each. Uncle Sam is a pretty good landlord."
Cordially thanking him, Walter exclaimed as he straightened his aching back:
"I haven't been as lame and tired since I pitched a twelve-inning game for the high-school championship of the State. Phew! I must have moved enough dynamite already to blow Colon off the map. But I'll be glad to report in the morning, sir."
This casual reference to base-ball had a most surprising effect upon the placid Mr. Naughton, who had seemed proof against excitement. He jumped as if he had been shot at, grasped Walter by the arm, and shouted eagerly:
"Say that again. Can you pitch? Are you a real ball-player? Man alive, tell me all about it!"