At last I had crossed all the Isthmus and heard the wash of the
Caribbean at my feet. It was the Sunday following our Gatun days,
and nearly a month since my landing on the Zone. The morning train
from Empire left me at the lake-side city for a run over locks and
dam which the working days had not allowed, and there being no
other train for hours I set off along the railroad to walk the
seven miles to Colon. On either side lay hot, rampant jungle, low
and almost swampy. It was noon when I reached the broad railroad
yards and Zone storehouses of Mt. Hope and turned aside to
Cristobal hotel.

Cristobal is built on the very fringe of the ocean with the roll
of waves at the very edge of its windows, and a far-reaching view
of the Caribbean where the ceaseless Zone breeze is born. There
stands the famous statue of Columbus protecting the Indian maid,
crude humor in bronze; for Columbus brought Indian maids anything
but protection. Near at hand in the joyous tropical sunshine lay a
great steamer that in another week would be back in New York tying
up in sleet and ice. A western bronco and a lariat might perhaps
have dragged me on board, with a struggle.

There is no more line of demarkation between Cristobal and Colon
than between Ancon and Panama. A khaki-clad Zone policeman patrols
one sidewalk, a black one in the sweltering dark blue uniform and
heavy wintry helmet of the Republic of Panama lounges on the other
side of a certain street; on one side are the "enumerated" tags of
the census, on the other none. Cross the street and you feel at
once a foreigner. It is distinctly unlawful to sell liquor on
Sunday or to gamble at any time on the Canal Zone; it is therefore