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He balked at sight of the steep runway from the deck to the wharf, and Walter offered him a helping hand. The general angrily waved him aside and muttered something in Spanish which sounded venomously hostile. Fernandez Garcia Alfaro, who was within ear-shot, explained to Walter:

"He says he will find you again, and he swears it in very bad language."

"Pooh! I'm not afraid of the fat rascal," carelessly returned Walter. "I guess Uncle Sam is strong enough to look after me."

Before noon he found himself in the modern American settlement of Cristobal, among clean, paved streets whose palm-shaded houses, with wide, screened porches, were of uniform color and design. Boys and girls were coming home from school, as happy and noisy as Walter was used to meeting them in Wolverton. As he wisely observed to himself, this agreeable place was where the Americans lived, not where they worked, and a fellow had to find work before he could live anywhere. He was among his own countrymen, but where was there any place for him? He felt friendless and forlorn.