We struck a smoother road that led up a hill on a long slant.
Apparently for miles we followed thus, the white-robed individual ahead
still deaf to all commands and the blood-curdling threats I had now come
to uttering. All our personal baggage had long since mysteriously
disappeared, ravished away from us at the customs house by a ragged
horde of blacks. It began to look as though we were stranded in Africa
without baggage or effects. Billy and B. were all the time growing
fainter in the distance, though evidently they too had struck the long,
slanting road.

Then we came to a dim, solitary lantern glowing feebly beside a bench at
what appeared to be the top of the hill. Here our guide at last came to
a halt and turned to me a grinning face.

"Samama hapa," he observed.

There! That was the word I had been frantically searching my memory for!
Samama--stop!

The others struggled in. We were very warm. Up to the bench led a tiny
car track, the rails not over two feet apart, like the toy railroads
children use. This did not look much like grownup transportation, but it
and the bench and the dim lantern represented all the visible world.

We sat philosophically on the bench and enjoyed the soft tropical
night. The air was tepid, heavy with unknown perfume, black as a band of
velvet across the eyes, musical with the subdued undertones of a
thousand thousand night insects. At points overhead the soft blind
darkness melted imperceptibly into stars.