up the other fellows, and I'll be satisfied."

In a moment Bob pointed out a flat field marked with the welcome white
T, then he aroused John and Tom while Paul was bringing the Sky-Bird
down. From a rickety old pier, also from the shores where they had
gathered, a crowd of curious natives rushed forward to witness the
landing of the most startling object they had ever seen. They were a
mixture of South Americans, mostly Ecuadoreans, and not until our
friends stepped out of the cabin did they summon up enough courage to
get very close to the machine.

Among them was the owner of the island--a good-looking young
Ecuadorean, highly educated, who was to look after their interests in
the matter of fuel,--and the chief of police (presumably "chief,"
because there is only one representative of the law in the Galapagos).

The owner of San Cristobal informed the flyers in excellent
French,--which all of them except Oliver Torrey could speak,--that he
was delighted to welcome the first airplane crew to his little domain;
that weeks ago the ship had brought gasoline and oil, which was now
awaiting their pleasure in the little nearby shanty; that he and his
police officer and the peons were eager to serve them in any way they
could; and would the brave American aviators favor him and his police
officer by joining them at the hacienda for dinner that evening?

Our friends graciously accepted this invitation, upon finding that
their host would appoint a watch for the airplane. They then went with
him to his pretty hacienda in the valley--a green, undulating country,
dotted with grazing cattle and horses, patches of sugar-cane, coffee
bushes, and lime trees, stretching away to a cloud-capped range of
mountains.

Situated upon a hillock, in the midst of this entrancing valley, and
surrounded by the peons' grass houses, was the owner's home. Here the
flyers partook of an excellent repast, garnished with the best the
island could afford, including tender wild duck from the surrounding
lagoons and savory turtle soup. Then followed songs by their host, and
jolly college melodies by themselves, accompanied by the sweet strains
of a guitar in the hands of the police officer.

Out in the compound, the peons also celebrated the occasion. There
were great oil flares, thrummings of guitars, gyrating dancers in
bright-hued ponchos, merry cries, the laughing of children, the barking
of dogs.

Everybody seemed thoroughly happy and