surrounding a closed carriage. They were evidently travellers starting
forth on the three days' ride to San Lorenzo, to cross to Amapala,
where the Pacific Mail takes on her passengers. They had been halted
by our sentries. As I came nearer I recognized, through the mist of
rain, Joseph Fiske, young Fiske, and a group of the Isthmian men. The
storm, or the bursting shells, had stampeded their pack-train, and a
dozen frantic Mozos were rounding up the mules and adding their
shrieks and the sound of their falling whips to the tumult of the
storm.

I galloped past them to where our main guard were lashing the canvas-
cover to their gun, and ordered them to unstrap it, and fight their
way to the palace.

As I turned again the sentry called: "Am I to let these people go?
They have no passes."

I halted, and Joseph Fiske raised his heavy eyelids, and blinked at me
like a huge crocodile. I put a restraint upon myself and moved toward
him with a confident smile. I could not bear to have him depart,
thinking he went in triumph. I looked the group over carefully and
said: "Certainly, let them pass," and Fiske and some of the Isthmian
men, who appeared ashamed, nodded at me sheepishly.

But one of them, who was hidden by the carriage, called out: "You'd
better come, too; your ship of state is getting water-logged."

I made no sign that I heard him, but McGraw instantly answered, "Yes,
it looks so. The rats are leaving it!"