the infantry and cavalry stationed at Ciego objected to his doing this,
but he said: "He has a pass from General Weyler. I am not responsible."
It was true that I had an order from General Weyler, but he had
rendered it ineffective by having me followed about wherever I went by
his police and spies. They sat next to me in the cafes and in the
plazas, and when I took a cab they called the next one on the line and
trailed after mine all around the city, until my driver would become
alarmed for fear he, too, was suspected of something, and would take me
back to the hotel.

I had gotten rid of them at Cienfuegos by purchasing a ticket on the
steamer to Santiago, three days further down the coast, and then
dropping off in the night at the trocha, so while I was visiting it I
expected to find that my non-arrival at Santiago had been reported, and
word sent to the trocha that I was a newspaper correspondent. And
whenever an officer spoke to the one who was showing me about, my
camera appeared to grow to the size of a trunk, and to weigh like lead,
and I felt lonely, and longed for the company of the cheerful cable
operator at the other end of the trocha.

But as I had seen Mr. Gillette in "Secret Service" only seventeen times
before leaving New York, I knew just what to do, which was to smoke all
the time and keep cool. The latter requirement was somewhat difficult,
as Ciego de Avila is a hotter place than Richmond. Indeed, I can only
imagine one place hotter than Ciego, and I have not been there.

Ciego was an interesting town. During every day of the last rainy
season an average of thirty soldiers and officers died there of yellow
fever. While I was there I saw two soldiers, one quite an old man, drop
down in the street as though they had been shot, and lie in the road