the surface at my intrusion, but they quickly changed to their
ingrown politeness and chatty sociability when addressed in their
own tongue and treated in their own extravagant gestures. It was
almost sure to return again, however, at the question whether they
were Panamanians. Distinctly not! They were Colombians! There is
no such country as Panama.

Thus the enrolling of the faithful continued. Chinese laundrymen
divulged the secrets of their mysterious past between spurts of
water at steaming shirt-bosoms; Chinese merchants, of whom there
are hordes on the Zone, cueless, dressed and betailored till you
must look at them twice to tell them from "gold" employees, the
flag of the new republic flapping above their doors, the new
president in their lapels, left off selling crucifixes and
breastpin medallions of Christ to negro women, to answer my
questions. One evening I stumbled into a nest of eleven Bengali
peddlers with the bare floor of their single room as bed, table,
and chairs; in one corner, surmounted by their little embroidered
skull-caps, were stacked the bundles with which they pester Zone
housewives, and in another their god wrapped in a dirty rag
against profaning eyes.

Many days had passed before I landed the first Zone resident I
could not enroll unassisted. He was a heathen Chinee newly
arrived, who spoke neither Spanish nor English. It was "Chinese
Charlie" who helped me out. "Chinese Charlie" was a resident of
the Zone before the days of de Lesseps and at our first meeting
had insisted on being enrolled under that pseudonym, alleging it
his real name. Upstairs above his store all was sepulchral silence
when I mounted to investigate--and I came quickly and quietly down