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It was almost as though some Pelée had erupted and covered the place with the lava of pure desolation clear as glass.

“Taking their siestas,” said Davis. “Keep her as she goes. I know this harbour and it’s all good holding ground, beyond that buoy.”

Harman at the wheel nodded, and Davis went forward to superintend the fellows getting the anchor ready while the Araya, her canvas quivering to the last of the dying breeze, stole in past an old rusty torpedo boat, past a grain ship that seemed dead, on and on, dropping her anchor at least two cable lengths from the mole.

The rattle of the anchor chain made Buenodiaz open one eye. A boat slipped out from the mole. It was the Port Doctor.

Buenodiaz flings its slops into the street and its smells are traditional, but it has a holy horror of imported diseases and its Port Doctor never sleeps—even in siesta time.

With the Doctor came the Customs, smelling of garlic, with whom Davis conversed in the language of the natives, while Harman attended to the liquor and cigars.