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Strolling at random, he was unaware that he had crossed the boundary line into the Panamanian city of Colon until the streets became a wonderfully picturesque jumble of Spanish-speaking natives clad in white duck and linen, chattering West India negroes, idling Americans in khaki, and sailors from every clime.

Passing the city market, he thriftily bought his supper—bananas, mangoes, and peppery tamales—at cost of a few cents, and pursued his entertaining tour of sight-seeing. It was all strange and fascinating and romantic to his untutored eyes. His wanderings were cut short at sight of General Quesada, who was seated at a table in front of a café with several friends. Two of these were in uniform adorned with gold lace and buttons.

Walter wasted no time in wondering whether these were officers of the army or the police. The battered general was pointing him out to them with a gesture of his bandaged hand. The officers stared as if to be sure they would know him again. Hastily deciding that the climate of Cristobal might be healthier, Walter retreated toward the Canal Zone and the shelter of the stars and stripes. As he glanced over his shoulder, the three men at the café table appeared to be discussing him with a lively interest which made him feel uneasier than ever. Perhaps the warning of Captain Bradshaw had not been all moonshine. It looked as if General Quesada were still thinking about that terrible broom-handle which had bruised his pompous pride as severely as his knuckles.