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Soon the low-roofed city of Colon was revealed behind the flashing surf, the white ribbon of beach, and the clusters of tall palms. From the opposite shore of the bay stretched the immensely long arm of the new breakwater, on top of which crawled toy-like engines and work-trains. What looked like a spacious, sluggish river extended straight inland toward the distant ramparts of the hills. On its surface were noisy dredges, deep-laden steamers, and tow-boats dragging seaward strings of barges heaped high with rock and dirt. This was part of the Panama Canal itself, the finished section leading from the Atlantic, and where the hills began to rise a great cloud of smoke indicated the activities of steam-shovels, locomotives, and construction plants.

Walter Goodwin, no longer brooding over his fear of becoming a "tropical tramp," was impatient to see the wonderful spectacle at close range. After the steamer had been moored at one end of the government docks of Cristobal, he was assigned to duty at the gangway while the passengers filed ashore. Conspicuous among them was General Quesada, his right hand bandaged, his surly face partly eclipsed by strips of plaster, his gait that of one who was stiff and sore.