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"Im- taxi to your destination, and if you are not a carriage must serve. The latter usually is of surprising flexibility, which gives a greater sense of danger than there really is.

which here would mean
possible, unthinkable," and,
picking up my belongings, de-
parted. I followed the inn-
keeper out.
He merely
shrugged his shoulders, but I
pestered him until at last,
"Come," he beckoned, "you
shall sleep in my daughter's
room. It is good, yez?" and
looked inquiringly into my face.
"It sounds good," I replied.
He then led me to another
dreadful room with four walls
which had once been white-
washed, probably by mistake,
and possessing one dirty bed.
Turning round he faced me
with that same amazing smile,
and, as previously, looking up
into my face, drawled, "You
may take my daughter's room.
I will take my daughter.
is good, yez?"

It

Should you happen to be driving towards the suburbs. and in the dry season, you will be covered in brick-dust. The rough bricks are just laid on the road, and the traffic pulverises them. You will see nothing. A pink haze will rise on all sides of the vehicle, and even your hair, if you have any, will receive its quota of particles. In the wet season you will be thickly caked with rich liquid mud, which will adhere to you aggressively. Perchance a piece will slap thee in the face or close thy burning eyes. Then they will tell you - these delightful people-that it's only a piece of mud, because you're not supposed to know. But do not attempt to remove it. Remember it's part of the life of the country, which must be absorbed. A baptism none can escape!

Of course, if you are going to some hotel in the city, you will just rattle over the cobblestones and wood-blocks and be there in no time.

It is about eight hours to Guatemala City-through the swampy coastland, infested with mosquitoes and other stinging insects; then the rising ground, with its coffee plantations and sugar estates; and lastly, the railway runs between the tall volcanoes. Now the down grade, past the great lake of Amatitlan, once in a bygone age, long before chronological history, the crater of a colossal volcano. The train passes along its shores, where the sulphur springs hiss close to the water's edge. Up again over mountains, through beautifully wooded lands, and, when the evening shadows begin to fall, the straggling city looms. If you are lucky you get a being repainted, which, we were

One morning I met Chatsworth. He had made all arrangements for the expedition to the mosquito coast of Spanish Honduras, and I agreed to accompany him. He had chartered a schooner. It was undergoing certain repairs and

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informed, would take about six dirty, and full of crawling weeks. insects.

A few days later we had started for the Mexican frontier, for, whilst in Salvador, geological sections had been handed to us of a beautiful oil structure which was supposed to be situated on the Suchiate River, about ten miles north of the railway. Those sections had been made by what is termed in these parts a "mining man." I do not exactly know what that is, but that's what he was. It gives me the impression of a man who a great many years ago did some mining and hasn't done any since. My definition is, I fear, very vague, but so is the "mining man " when you meet him.

It's a long train journey to Ayutla, the crazy little border town, with its muddy river, some twelve hours, most of which is through the sweltering heat of the coastlands between those seven silent gods, and in the distance, hidden only by the forest lands, the placid face of the ocean.

In the morning I awakened with a burning sensation behind the ear, and, as this became intense, went to the apothecary.

"Cienpiés (a centipede)-you must poultice it for about a week," that purveyor of potions announced.

When I got back to Guatemala City I related my painful experience to a friend.

"You're lucky," he avowed. "Why, is it a sign of good luck?" I asked hopefully.

"Oh no," he replied. "Only a centipede once crawled across me when I was asleep-across my eye."

Funny, I thought, some of us don't even recognise our luck when it does come.

We rode out to the property to examine the "mining man's " structure. He had, by-the-bye, drawn it the wrong way, but it was perfectly understandable. We found a good section of exposed rock close to the Suchiate River, which Chatsworth examined carefully. No such structure as the mining man had drawn was there. However, I do believe it might be found that is, in some text-book.

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It was dark when we arrived, and we lost no time in detraining with all our saddlery and what not. We flitted across the road like ghosts in the moonlight, hiking our equipage, and deposited same at the door of a wooden inn. Tapped, but it wasn't the door. It only looked like it. However, some one appeared from a little farther along the building. We were shown to a room upstairs, an unsavoury vast and place no air, stifling heat, of Mexico. A learned judge

We decided to return to Guatemala City to-morrow, and filled in the rest of the day by walking along the banks of this frontier river. There is always something fascinating about a frontier. Over there on that other bank was the turbulent Republic

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the other day declared that there was no such thing as an unwritten law. "It's just," he said, a synonym for barbarism." Yes, and Mexico is the living embodiment of both. As we strolled along the banks I could not help recalling the accounts I had but lately read in Guatemalan papers of the terrible treatment meted out by bandits to passengers travelling in the through train between Mexico and Guatemala cities. The bandits at some lonely spot in the trackless forests of Mexico would hold up a train, and, under penalty of instant death, order the passengers, men and women, to discard every stitch of clothing. In this condition they would drive them into the forest to suffer untold miseries. They then ransacked their clothes, a most effective but inhuman method of robbery.

We had hardly been back a week in Guatemala City before another journey to the Mexican frontier was projected. Meanwhile we received the news that the weather on the Caribbean coast had been atrocious lately, and that our schooner was not yet painted.

"It looks as if we're going to have a tough trip," I remarked to Chatsworth.

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ing out of Guatemala City on the way to the Mexican frontier. This time we alighted at Cruces and made a circular traverse through Tumbador, Rodeo, Malacatán, and down as hitherto to Ayutla, where we crossed the railway and proceeded on southwards to Blanca, and then on to Charerra, Caballo Blanco, Paraiso, and finally joined the train again at the large town of Mazatenango. The trip was without incident, but our progress was impeded by the heavy rains and innumerable coastal rivers which had to be crossed, riding through them with the mule submerged up to its belly, and never knowing step by step whether the next one would land you in a deep hole. However, this is one of the very ordinary risks which any traveller in such countries must face, and we returned to Guatemala City after another fruitless journey, for the nature of the strata, from a petroleum point of view, had not been encouraging.

Constant travel of this type is tiring, and we took a few days' rest before getting together our supplies for the trip to Mosquitia.

Guatemala City is the largest in Central America, with a population of about a hundred thousand. It stands at an altitude of over five thousand feet, and can be both boiling hot and at night so cold that an overcoat is welcome. It all depends on the season of the year and the kind of weather.

Terrific thunderstorms, violent winds, and earthquakes. This city has also been wiped out about five times. In fact, all the entertainments which little Salvador provides, but without that attractive family party homeliness. This city is too big for that, but it can be interesting in other ways.

One night, when we drove into the town to attend the New Year's ball, we found that a revolution was in progress. Soldiers with loaded rifles manned the streets, lying across the road on their stomachs. The revolution was successful, and the Presidency changed hands without further ado. There were four or five dead bodies in the streets that night, but from what I could gather they were described as nonentities which could be easily spared. A President in these countries has a very uncertain tenure of office. His life is uncertain, and his death is even more so, for he may at any moment languish in prison at the will of his successor, and thus it is that revolutions breed revolutions, the hydra-headed serpent. You cut off one head, and two grow in its place.

And so we marked time in this city until the news arrived that our schooner would be ready for service within a few days. We then made our final purchases there are always those final purchases, but choosing tinned meats is a distracting pastime. There's this brand and that, and then there's the brand you want, which, of

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course, they haven't got, but they will have some in after you have gone, they assure you blandly, and, oh yes, you mustn't forget just those few luxuries to tickle the palate when your luck is down. Ah, and something for the Indians. Money's no use to them; there's nothing they can buy with it. Salt and tobacco for the men, and beads for the girls. Then there was something else, but we couldn't remember what it was-something vitally important. "Liquid refreshments? ” No, we had already provided for that. We will ask the owner of the store; he's sure to know. And so we approach that opulent person. He, of course, suggested everything from pickled herrings to stewed apricots. Curse him-I knew he'd mention my pet abomination, and, sure enough, "stewed pears" he ejaculated triumphantly. "Don't," I cried, "don't do it. Every man in every tropical country in the world has them at every meal.” I could see them sitting there smugly in Mr Everyman's bungalow, Mr Everyman in his shirt sleeves, his wife ladling them out with a huge spoon, and the children with their napkins tucked half-way down their necks. Of course, I'm not a family man, but if I were those pears would cause a separation. But wait! I knew it was something beastly we wanted, and those pears have given me I feel

squeamish already. Why, of course, sea-sickness tablets!

X. THE MOLINERO.

I have learnt never to trust Fate. It's really too reckless. I merely tolerate it. My philosophy is just to go on till something hits you. You will not be disappointed. It will, but you may have lots of fun before it does.

I heard the hollow clanking sound. We were crossing over the second highest bridge in the world. Some philosopher I then remembered once said, "Life goes headlong." I thought it very easily might, and was glad when that great yawning cavern disappeared behind us.

A bewildering maze of rocks which jutted out impudently almost to the windows of the carriage. These deep declivities always ended in the black obscurity of a tunnel, from which we emerged once again into the blazing sunlight, and then zigzagged down the mountain side. The hours passed, and every now and again you caught glimpses of a silver streak far below you: the rushing waters of the Montagua River, which the train joins at Rancho St Augustin. At first merely a large mountain stream dancing and splashing over rocks and boulders, but later broadening out into the full dignity of a river. The sky was now overcast.

The

clouds in the upper atmosphere were moving at a great pace, whilst those in the lower layers were dawdling and discharging

their humid contents here and there. The wind was rising rapidly, and as we slowly steamed out of the last tunnel into Puerto Barrios, we realised that a violent storm was in progress.

Our hotel faced the sea, which even in that sheltered bay was foaming with white horses. This boded ill for our journey, and made me feel more like a land-lubber than ever.

The gale continued for days, and every morning Chatsworth and I would anxiously study what Hafiz described as that tiresome old roof of heaven," and look with trepidation on that angry sea. However, it abated at last, and left us with sunshine and a dead calm.

I have no liking for schooners. I hate the medley of ropes, marling-spikes, barrels, tanks, and such-like with which in these unfamiliar surroundings the likes of me come into violent contact at every turn.

She was 250 tons, and named The Molinero. I saw nothing appropriate in calling a schooner The Miller, but everything concerned with the sea is always a mass of incongruities. They were loading her with bags of sugar, the arrangement being that after the discharge of this cargo at Puerto Cortez, our first port of call, the vessel would be exclusively at our disposal.

A German captain, a super

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