"Not a bit of it. He made good. The next I heard of him he was dug out of a landslide in Culebra Cut."
"And did he survive that?" Mr. Goodwin's knees were trembling, and he sat down in a deck-chair.
"Oh, yes. It didn't damage him much, barring a badly wrenched arm which spoiled his pitching. He was in Ancon hospital——"
"Then the letters were all right. I am so relieved," and Mr. Goodwin's face beamed. "Now I can find him and——"
The quarantine doctor looked perplexed and hesitated before he replied:
"I hope so. The last time I saw Naughton he told me a most remarkable yarn. Young Goodwin had been carried to sea in a filibustering steamer by a notorious Panamanian named Quesada, who had it in for him. A government tug and a company of marines were sent in chase."
"And what then?" Mr. Goodwin had completely wilted.
"I haven't heard the end of it. The tug ought to be back by this time unless she had to run all the way to San Salvador. I'm quite sure the boy is all right. He is hard to down. I shall be glad to put you in touch with the right people as soon as you get ashore."
"This all sounds like the worst kind of a nightmare," wearily muttered Mr. Goodwin. "If I can find him I shall take him home by the first steamer."