never the “tough” his American counterpart strives to show himself—­but merely a cheery good-fellow—­drifted into our conversation, and when we found I had slept in his native village he would have it that we accept a round of Valdepenas.  Which must have been potent, for it moved “Scotty” to unbutton an inner pocket and set up an entire bottle of amontillado.  So midnight was no great space off when we turned out again into the howling night and, having helped Renson to reach a sleeping-place, scattered to the bachelor quarters that had been found for us and lay down for the few hours that remained before the 5:51 should carry us back to Empire.

At last I had crossed all the Isthmus and heard the wash of the Caribbean at my feet.  It was the Sunday following our Gatun days, and nearly a month since my landing on the Zone.  The morning train from Empire left me at the lake-side city for a run over locks and dam which the working days had not allowed, and there being no other train for hours I set off along the railroad to walk the seven miles to Colon.  On either side lay hot, rampant jungle, low and almost swampy.  It was noon when I reached the broad railroad yards and Zone storehouses of Mt.  Hope and turned aside to Cristobal hotel.

Cristobal is built on the very fringe of the ocean with the roll of waves at the very edge of its windows, and a far-reaching view of the Caribbean where the ceaseless Zone breeze is born.  There stands the famous statue of Columbus protecting the Indian maid, crude humor in bronze; for Columbus brought Indian maids anything but protection.  Near at hand in the joyous tropical sunshine lay a great steamer that in another week would be back in New York tying up in sleet and ice.  A western bronco and a lariat might perhaps have dragged me on board, with a struggle.

There is no more line of demarkation between Cristobal and Colon than between Ancon and Panama.  A khaki-clad Zone policeman patrols one sidewalk, a black one in the sweltering dark blue uniform and heavy wintry helmet of the Republic of Panama lounges on the other side of a certain street; on one side are the “enumerated” tags of the census, on the other none.  Cross the street and you feel at once a foreigner.  It is distinctly unlawful to sell liquor on Sunday or to gamble at any time on the Canal Zone; it is therefore with something approaching a shock that one finds everything “wide open” and raging just across the street.

I wandered out past “Highball’s” merry-go-round, where huge negro bucks were laughing and playing and riding away their month’s pay on the wooden horses like the children they are, and so on to the edge of the sea.  Unlike Panama, Colon is flat and square-blocked, as it is considerably darker in complexion with its large mixture of negroes from the Caribbean shores and islands.  Uncle Sam seems to have taken the city’s fine beach away from her.  But then, she probably never took any other advantage of it than to turn it into a garbage heap as bad as once was Bottle Alley.  On one end is a cement swimming pool with the announcement, “Only for gold employees of the I. C. C. or P. R. R. and guests of Washington Hotel.”  It is merely a softer way of saying, “Only white Americans with money can bathe here.”