ys of palm-thatched huts,
staring with still and stupid wonder at the train, and looking like
inanimate clay models of a fairer, finer race to come. It is all like
a curious dream from which we waken at Escuintla to take our eleven
o'clock breakfast. This place has been partially destroyed by
earthquake, and Mrs. Steele urges despatch with breakfast that we may
see what is left. A very tolerable meal is served in the wide, open
veranda of the station.

"What a nice little spoon!" Mrs. Steele remarks, as we sit down,
noticing one of tortoise shell quaintly carved.

"You like it?" is all the Baron says, and coolly puts it in his
pocket. Mrs. Steele is aghast. "I pay dthem," he says unconcernedly.
"Haf leedle salade?"

I have finished first and go out to the platform. Groups of natives
are gathered about, carrying on their heads round shallow baskets like
trays displaying fruit, eggs and _water_ for sale. These people seem
very different from the Mexican Indians. They are blacker, their faces
are more flat and stupid, and the women's dress is a straight piece of
gay cotton cloth wound round the lower half of the body and secured at
the waist with a scarf tied over. The only other encumbrance is a thin
white cotton sacque, short and loose. The women immediately attack me
with vociferous gibberish, offering me their wares. Mrs. Steele sends
the Baron out to look after me, and when he has bought a basket full
of pineapples, sappadillos, mangoes and grenadillas, he proposes a
little walk up the road. We have twenty minutes yet, he says, and Mrs.
Steele is stopping to buy some grass baskets and fans. We walk up the
dusty little highway, and the burning sun beats down strong and hot in
our unaccustomed faces.

"How can people endure it?" I marvel, wiping away great drops of
moisture.

"See dthat big house all come down? Dthat ees eardthquake," explains
my escort.

"How dreadful! Look at the thatch roofs of those queer little huts--it
makes me think of peaked Robinson Crusoe hats. Just see how they're
pulled far down over the sun-burnt wall as if to shade their eyes from
the scorching sun."

"Robeen Crusa?" The Baron looks puzzled. "I know not dthat kind of
hat. Ees it like vhat you tell me about vhen I first see you--dthat
'Robeen Hood'?"

I stand still in the quiet street and wake a far-off echo with my
laughter. The Peruvian gets red in the face and begins to look
offended.

"Please don't mind me; I think you've