IN SUNNY SALVADOR
I
A mule trail leads overland from Guatemala to Salvador--a rugged,
bowlder-strewn path that curls along mountain sides, and fords rivers,
and scales precipitous cliffs--a road such as only a mule could travel
with security and comfort.
I crossed it in an automobile.
The chauffeur--evidently a revolutionist keeping in practice at risking
his life--drove out of Guatemala City with myself and another _gringo_
passenger, at four in the morning, and raced through the black night
with the shrieking claxon characteristic of all Latin-American motor
traffic, past the sleeping suburbs and up the heights to the first
narrow ledge.
There, while the car still raced at full speed above a sheer drop of
several hundred feet, he removed both hands from the wheel to light a
cigarette.
This was merely the beginning. A protest from his American passengers
would have delighted him, and furnished bar-room anecdotes for the next
ten years. Wherefore Shields--a lean lank Yankee salesman from the
Middle West--smiled cheerfully as though he were having the time of his
life, and I followed his example.
The trail was not merely narrow, but it squirmed and twisted, following
the scalloped contour of the mountainside. The driver took the curves
without use of brake. As a matter of fact, he explained later, the
brakes did not work. So we sped unchecked around and around the many
bends, until, making a particularly abrupt turn, we collided with an
ox-cart.
This stopped us with a crash. The ox-cart overturned. A load of melons,
bound for the Guatemalan market, rolled down the slopes, starting a
small landslide. The oxen, bumped off the road, pawed frantically for
a foothold on the brush-grown decline. The _peon_ marketer glowered in
sullen resentment. Our chauffeur lighted another cigarette, climbed out
to survey his twisted fender and his awry lamps, produced a flask of
cognac and took a comforting swig, climbed back again to discover that
his car would still run, and drove away as fast as before.
The road grew steadily worse. Our seat-springs were in the same
condition as the brakes. This scarcely mattered, since we so seldom
touched them, but spent most of the journey somewhere midway between
the seat and the awning, contriving as a rule to miss the steel
framework of the top, but clinging to the sides lest we puncture the
canvas above us.
Our most difficult task was to maintain a cheerful, dignified
expression of countenance for the benefit of observers along the
road. Dawn brought the entire population out to see us. Barefooted
_peons_--men, women, and children--came racing across the fields
at the shriek of our claxon, to obtain a closer view. It was now
three years since the first automobile had crossed this trail--an
achievement hailed at the time by marveling editorials in the local
Central-American press--and motor traffic was becoming a fairly regular
thing, but not so regular that the novelty had diminished. In fact,
the chickens of the region had not yet learned to jump across the road
in front of the car. The other species of livestock were more apt,
however, in acquiring the customs of civilization. The dogs chased
us with outraged yelps. The cows, always lying in the center of the
road, lurched to their feet directly in our path. Horses and donkeys,
convinced that we were after them and were as apt to catch them in
the woods as on the trail, stuck to the trail, and galloped ahead of
us for mile after mile without turning aside, while their indignant
owners trotted behind us, hurling imprecations, and describing us as
cattle-rustlers.
Boys, and occasionally grown men, took delight in standing loutishly
in the center of the street at each village, making faces at us to
amuse their admiring friends, and leaping aside at our approach. If
we stopped at one of the infrequent towns, as we usually did--in order
that the chauffeur might again produce his cognac flask--the whole
population surrounded us to stare. On such occasions Shields would
reach out and remove five-cent pieces from the ears of the natives
within reach of his arm--a diversion practiced with much amusement
by Richard Harding Davis on his travels in Central America--with the
result that the local police were frequently called upon for the return
of the money discovered in local ears.
These policemen took our names at each stopping-place--a custom in
vogue throughout both Guatemala and Salvador whenever strangers make
their appearance--but they allowed us to inscribe our own nomenclature,
wherefore, should any list of distinguished tourists ever be published
in these countries, the public will be amazed at the many world-famous
notables who have made the overland journey. The policemen, unable
to read, always bowed profoundly, and if we inquired of them where
gasoline might be purchased, they would hop upon the running-board, and
show us the way, bowing again for a two-cent tip.
The road, having scaled the first mountain range, crossed a wide
plateau. This was a cattle country. From time to time a cloud of
dust appeared before us, indicating another drove of steers, and the
chauffeur headed always for the exact center of it, sometimes plowing
through without missing a steer, but usually dispersing the herd in all
directions, whereupon native cowpunchers waved their arms and screamed
curses and rode frantically away to round up their galloping protégés.
Having crossed the plateau, we came upon the worst roads of all. The
chauffeur gave his wheel a twist, and we started up a river-bed, where
a frothing stream tumbled down over a succession of huge bowlders. No
one but a Latin-American, fortified with cognac, could have driven a
car up those rapids. The water sprinkled us, and blinded us. But up we
went, the auto climbing from rock to rock, much as a man might pull
himself hand over hand up a steep embankment. One wheel would catch;
down would jolt the other three wheels; the motor would roar; another
wheel would catch; another roar; a lurch that made the teeth chatter;
another roar; a few feet of progress; a few feet of sliding backward--
Somehow, we made it. Leaving Guatemala behind, we raced through
Salvador, around another series of cliffs where the chauffeur kept
looking backward to see whether we flinched, and at last down into the
valleys of another fertile coffee country, just as night descended, and
the askewness of our damaged lamps made driving still more difficult.
Long trains of ox-carts, returning from the Salvadorean markets, loomed
out of the blackness before us. But still we charged ahead, missing
most of them, and arrived at eight o’clock--still breathing, though
very much bruised--in Santa Ana, the second city of the republic.
II
Salvador is the smallest nation in Central America, but with the
exception of Costa Rica the most progressive.
The railway train which carried me to the capital the next day was
neat and clean, and the coaches freshly painted by an artist who had
covered the interior with bright colors, and had traced designs of
lilies and tulips wherever there was sufficient woodwork to permit of
ornamentation.
As in Guatemala, the way led through a land of volcanoes, wherewith
Salvador is so abundantly supplied that for some years she did not
bother to construct lighthouses on her coast. At a distance, from the
railway train, one could count several of them, some in mild eruption.
For miles we rode through a congealed river of metal, a great stream
that traced its way downward through the green of Mount San Salvador--a
tumbled river of black rock that had hardened into fantastic shapes
while still foaming and boiling. But already it had decomposed in
places, and islands of green jungle were appearing along its surface.
Salvador, like Guatemala, is mainly a coffee country. It is not,
however, a country of large estates, but of small holdings. Patches
of farm-land cover every available space. This is the most thickly
populated republic not only in Central America but in the entire
hemisphere. Into its 7,225 square miles were packed some 1,500,000
people. As everywhere, over-crowding, by intensifying the struggle for
existence, had developed among the Salvadoreans an energy and industry
greater than that of their neighbors. Hillsides that would have gone
to waste in Guatemala were plowed here to the very summit. Villages,
ruined by the last volcanic eruption, were springing up in all the
valleys.
One looked upon the heavily populated landscape and wondered why some
of the natives did not gravitate over into the next republic. But the
people of all these nations are like those of the Balkans in their
hatred of one another. When I mentioned the subject to a Salvadorean
who shared my seat, he muttered:
“Go to Guatemala? Never! People there are scoundrels!”
Which reminded me that Guatemalans had already warned me against
the Salvadoreans, all of whom were said to be cut-throats and
purse-snatchers. It is this spirit of mutual distrust that has kept
Central America divided into five diminutive states. There has been
talk of union ever since they first gained independence from Spain and
Mexico back in 1821 and 1823, but it has resulted only in a series
of temporary combinations of two or three republics, opposed by the
other three or two, and brought to an end through internal bickerings.
Politicians in all the countries favor the present multiplicity of
offices. Wherefore each little nation staggers under the burden of
supporting a president, and a congress, and a complete diplomatic
corps, although the whole five could be lost in Texas.
Salvador, the smallest, is so tiny that from its center one could
sometimes look westward to the Pacific Ocean, and eastward to the
mountains of Honduras.
III
If Salvador sometimes indulges in what the people of larger nations
describe as “comic opera,” it is normally peaceful.
It appeared so tranquil at the time of my visit that I was surprised to
learn of its being under martial law.
“Oh, that’s easily explained,” said the gentleman who shared my seat.
“Our president, Alfonso Quiñonez Molina, is a very excellent man, but
he has his enemies. Under martial law, he can draft any one into the
army. As soon as an opponent criticizes him, he makes him a General.
Thus the critic becomes susceptible to military discipline, and
ventures no further criticism.”
IV
A few hours of leisurely travel brought me to San Salvador, the capital
of El Salvador.
It was a warm, sunny capital, only a trifle over two thousand feet in
altitude, extremely low for a Central-American city. Its population
numbered only some fifty or sixty thousand. Its people, being of
_mestizo_ composition, did not affect the barbaric raiment of the
Guatemalan Indians. The half-breed maidens wrapped themselves in
filmy shawls of pink or blue, but after the blazing _serapes_ of the
previous country these garments seemed colorless. The city itself was
somewhat drab. A few of its structures were of the heavy masonry found
elsewhere in Central America, and its Governmental Palace was imposing
in its wealth of marble columns, yet the city as a whole--being another
favorite objective of the local earthquakes--was constructed mainly
of wood and corrugated iron, even to the cathedral, which, although
painted to suggest stone, was convincing only at a distance.
But it was a decidedly pleasant city, with many parks and tinkling
fountains. Pretty _señoritas_ were abundant. Priests in black
robes--unrestricted by law in this country--were to be seen everywhere.
Men walked through the market-places ringing dinner bells, and carrying
little boxes containing a tiny image of the Virgin, to Whom one might
bow for a penny. Horse cars rattled through the streets with much
crackling of the drivers’ whips. There was music each night in the
_plaza_, and flirtation beneath the palm trees. The tropic air was
balmy and soothing. About the whole city there was an atmosphere of
contentment--and a touch of that fictional romance which the traveler
craves.
V
Deciding to stay for a while, I took lodgings at a cheap hotel opposite
the Presidential Palace.
In all of these countries the homes of the wealthy and influential
citizens--even of the president--are quite apt to be located between
business offices, or stores, or even among slums. Because of the local
habit which wealth frequently manifests of shrinking into concealment
behind a plain exterior, the magnificent homes are apt to be no more
striking in outward appearance than their inglorious surroundings.
The palace, a plain one-story building, was recognizable as such only
from the large guard of colonels and generals who lined its sidewalk,
and from the presence just across the way of the principal military
barracks, with protruding towers from which machine-guns could sweep
the surrounding streets in case of insurrection.
My room had doors opening directly upon the avenue. If I chanced to
open them in the evening, I caught a flash of eyes from one feminine
stroller after another, for this region despite its distinction was
a favorite haunt of street-walkers, somewhat numerous in Salvador as
a result of a preponderance of females, a tropical climate, and the
difficulty of earning a living which always accompanies an excess of
population. From the opposite sidewalk, the colonels and generals would
smile and twirl their moustachios, and the policeman on the corner
would offer advice:
“That’s a good one! I know her myself!”
For variety, there was an occasional religious procession--the _pase
de la virgin_. At certain times in the year, the priests at the many
churches would send out the image of the Virgin to make a tour of the
city, spending a night at the home of each parishioner who chose to
receive Her. Every evening a long parade of women would pass my hotel,
marching very slowly, each holding aloft a lighted candle, and chanting
in a shrill strained voice.
One night, out of curiosity, I followed them. It was strangely
impressive--the winding procession of solemn women, intent upon the
image before them, singing a weird hymn that rose and fell and echoed
through the silent streets--the candles flaming aloft, as though this
were all a great stream of fire creeping very slowly through the heart
of the city. The family that was to receive the image came to meet us,
also bearing candles, and led us to the house, where in one corner of
the parlor a great stage had been constructed and decked with palms.
The head of the family, seeing a foreigner in the crowd, hastened to
welcome me.
“You honor my household, _señor_. Come early to-morrow night, and I
shall let _you_ carry the Virgin.”
They bore Her reverently into the house, and placed Her upon the
improvised Altar. For several minutes, they stood before Her, and the
chant reverberated through the room, vastly impressive. Then, as though
to shatter the whole effect, some woman shrieked in a loud voice:
“Who’s the cause of such great joy and happiness?”
From the crowd the answer came in a mighty roar, profanely like a
college yell:
“The Virgin Mary!”
They trooped noisily into the street. All was over. The solemnity was
gone. As I came out, several of the girls, so intent before upon their
hymn, favored me with a flash of eyes. I recognized them as those who
regularly passed my hotel door.
VI
The Central-American, like the Mexican, is both an idealist and a
materialist. He sees no inconsistency in being both devoutly religious
and frankly immoral.
He is quite apt to use the name of his favorite saint as a fitting
title for his gin mill. He employs it as a harmless ejaculation. He
may even resort to it for emphasis, as in the case of an advertisement
I recall, which endorsed a Charlie Chaplin moving picture with the
phrases: “Is it funny? Jesus, Joseph, and Mary!” And, among the lower
classes, he is quite apt to regard any religious holiday as a fitting
excuse for over-indulgence in liquor.
It is frequently charged throughout these countries that the great
waves of illegitimacy follow the principal church processionals, which
fact is not a reflection upon the church, but upon the inability of the
_peons_ to associate the ideas of religion and personal behavior. In
fact, the common people see nothing essentially wrong, or even unusual,
in illegitimacy itself. In Nicaragua, the newspapers in publishing a
list of births, distinguish each new citizen with the candid “legitimo”
or “ilegitimo,” and the latter outnumber the former by two or three to
one, a ratio which holds good for all these countries.
It must not be assumed from these statements, however, that all Central
America is a hotbed of immorality. In discussing any moral question, a
writer must indicate which social class he has in mind. In any of these
countries there is a distinct division between the aristocrat and the
_peon_.
In aristocratic circles, a man has every privilege, and a woman none.
It is assumed, in Latin fashion, that boys will be boys. Lest girls be
girls, their virtue is assured by a close chaperonage. A man of wealth
may keep several establishments in town beside his regular home, if
bound upon a journey, he may take with him some other lady in order
that his wife may be spared the discomforts of travel. The wife remains
a model of propriety. Here prevails the double standard.
In _peon_ circles, both sexes share something more of equality. They
mate usually without the formality of marriage. Should they prefer to
change partners from time to time, they do it casually, yet this is the
exception rather than the rule. In some cases, a woman objects to any
ceremony, preferring to remain free of ties, so that in case her new
spouse proves a drunkard or a wife-beater, she can leave him, for there
is no divorce in most of these countries. In some cases, they would
prefer the marriage ritual, but can not afford it. And in most cases,
although free to change partners, they remain faithful throughout life.
Women in this class, so long as they have a consort, are apt to be
as loyal as the women of the upper classes. Illegitimate children,
consequently, are more a result of these informal unions than of a
general promiscuity.
Yet promiscuity is not unknown. The _peon_ girl without a partner is
the daughter of a rather sensuous race, and of a race that is not
inclined to work when an easier living is to be obtained. In this land
of tolerance, little stigma attaches itself to her or to her children
if she takes up prostitution as a career. In most Latin-American
countries, she is restricted to a certain segregated district, but
she is recognized by the police as a legal and useful member of the
community. The _gente decente_, or decent people, as the aristocrats
describe themselves, may not invite her to their homes, but the
gentlemen may sometimes call at hers.
If, in San Salvador, she chooses to ply her trade before the
presidential palace, what matters it? She does not molest the
president. And if she chooses also to join a religious procession, and
return immediately to her profession, the Central-American sees nothing
inconsistent therein. What has religion to do with one’s personal
affairs?
VII
These people, of whatever class, are naturally tolerant toward one
another.
A man may be strictly moral, and many of them are, even in
aristocratic circles, yet he never takes it upon himself to enforce
a similar morality on his neighbor. There are no organizations in
Mexico or Central America for minding other people’s business. The
only society engaged in uplifting the fellow of different viewpoint in
these parts is one with offices at Albany, New York, which sends out
propaganda to combat the evil of bull-fighting.
Whether one wishes to raise the devil or not, one has a comfortable
sense of liberty here which is lacking in Anglo-Saxon lands. If one
chooses to drink, and to become disgracefully drunk, to such an extent
that we at home would remark the next day, “You certainly were a
mess last night!”, there is no such comment forthcoming from a Latin
American. Like the little General at Culiacán, the native of any of
these countries will say, “You were very lively last evening.”
Perhaps the wife of his hotel proprietor will even compliment him.
“After sixteen _copitas_ of Scotch whiskey, you did not molest a single
one of my servant-girls,” she will say. “You have a remarkably fine
character, _señor_!”
And he sobers up, feeling that he has been a paragon of virtue.
VIII
If these people seldom criticize harshly, however, they are very fond
of gossip. The women especially have few interests to discuss, and
infinite leisure for the discussion.
There were some fifteen _señoras_ and _señoritas_ at my hotel in San
Salvador, the wives or daughters of guests, all of them built to resist
earthquake, who spent the entire day sitting in a chair upon the
_patio_ veranda, without amusement or occupation. Anglo-Saxon girls,
with nothing to do except to wait for a husband to come home from work,
would have gone insane, but these of Salvador were passively content.
None of them ever read anything; in fact only a very few people of
either sex ever seem to read anything in these countries; few of them
ever sewed or knitted; all of them were quite satisfied with their
peaceful existence.
During the absence of their husbands, they were extremely circumspect.
When spouses were present, they might greet me with a pleasant,
“Good morning.” When alone, they affected not to see me. Since the
Latin-American gentleman, unless patently snubbed, fancies always that
a lady must be encouraging amorous advances, they had learned to be
extremely cautious.
But they all had a great curiosity about the United States--which
newspapers had taught them to regard as a country whose population
spent most of its time in a divorce court--and they were eager to ask
me questions. Wherefore they would gather in a body, and reassured by
the security of numbers, would occasionally surround me for purposes
of conversation.
Since the feminine mind runs mainly to romance, their questions were
rather personal. The women here always wish to know whether the man
they meet is married or single, and if single, whether he has a
sweetheart. On the theory that the lack of a sweetheart would interest
them most, I had always answered questions in the negative, but in San
Salvador I discovered that by inventing one I merely interested them
the more. The news spread rapidly, and within two minutes every woman
in the hotel was present to ask further questions about her.
“Is she beautiful?”
“No, she’s about as ugly as they make them.”
That provoked much discussion. These strange _gringos_ did not care for
beauty! Had one not seen many an American bringing with him a wife that
no Latin would have wed?
“But what does she look like? Six feet tall! _Dios!_ And wears number
ten shoes! _Ay, carramba!_ Do you really love her?”
Night after night they asked questions about her, until I regretted
her invention. If friends or relatives came to see my inquisitors, the
entire story had to be repeated again. I finally decided to let her
marry another. But this merely invited further inquiries.
“Are you not disconsolate? No! Ay, what unfeeling creatures are the
Americans! And she married a man of ninety years for his millions! How
commercial the _gringos_!”
Sympathy and comfort were offered in abundance. Each of the ladies
seemed to have a friend or relative who was suggested as a substitute.
I was forced to decline the suggestions.
“We are merely waiting, my sweetheart and I, until the old millionaire
dies. Then we shall inherit his wealth, and live happily ever after.”
There was a moment of shocked silence. Some one suggested that I
was joking, but was immediately overruled by the others. This, they
insisted, was a common practice in the United States. Anything was
possible among Americans! And was I not even jealous that I must wait
while my beloved lived with another?
“Not at all. I’ve cabled a second girl, and she’ll be my wife until the
first one is free. We do that regularly.”
My love affairs became the sensation of the community. And the story
did not reach the breaking point until the first girl, in the furor of
her love for me, announced in an imaginary cable that she had poisoned
her husband, and that the millions were ours. Even then, there were
several doubtful inquiries as to whether I really meant it. And when
I confessed that the whole story was fictitious, they were vastly
disappointed. It was all so in keeping with their visions of the
United States that they wished to believe it.
IX
In all of these women one observed a strangely child-like quality.
When better conversational subjects were exhausted, several of them
requested that I guess their ages. Oddly enough, in this land where
frankness is seldom encountered, women make no effort to hide the
number of their years. Perhaps it is because their personal vanity, so
very manifest in younger girls, practically ceases after marriage has
been achieved.
One of them I judged to be fifty. To please her I guessed forty. She
proved in reality to be thirty-two. They grow old so quickly here.
Yet in their manner they retain toward men that air of a child toward
a parent. Should a husband see fit to discuss with them any serious
subject, they listen in awed admiration to his opinions, exclaiming
occasionally, “I see! Ah, I understand!”
It would probably offend the average Latin-American to discover that
his spouse knew as much about anything as he did himself. He likes the
rôle of the patient mentor. He prefers that his wife be a gentle pet
rather than a comrade. I dined one day with a Salvadorean gentleman and
his wife; the lady, who came from one of the leading families, had
been educated abroad and had traveled extensively; yet the gentleman,
although he conversed quite brilliantly with the men at the table,
chattered only playful nonsense to his wife. In consideration of his
pride, she artfully concealed the fact that she was his intellectual
equal.
Now and then one reads in our newspapers or magazines about the equal
suffrage movement in Mexico or the organization of a new women’s club
in Chile. But such innovations have yet to gain an extensive following.
With the same conflict of idealism and materialism that distinguishes
Latin-American men, the women may verbally deplore their lack of
liberty but are in reality quite satisfied with it. They are of a
race which is inclined to follow the easiest course, and the easiest
course is to attach themselves to some convenient man and allow him to
worry about life’s problems. In these pleasant tropical countries no
girl of the lower classes escapes maternity; most girls of the middle
classes, not being over-critical about whom they marry, can land some
one; even in the more particular aristocratic circles the spinster is
a rarity. The wife usually has her own way when questions arise about
the household or the children. Beyond that she is quite content with
complete male dominance. And she is passively happy.
[Illustration: IN THESE PLEASANT TROPICAL COUNTRIES NO PEON GIRL
ESCAPES MATERNITY]
So accustomed are the Latin-Americans to the timid, gently-shrinking
type of woman that they usually misunderstand the visiting American
girl. When the native gentlemen observe her chatting with masculine
acquaintances upon the street in her frankly carefree manner, they leap
immediately to the conclusion that she is of the _demi-monde_. And when
a _gringo_ informs them that her smiles mean nothing, they shake their
heads in wonderment.
“_Ay!_” they exclaim. “Your Anglo-Saxon females are so cold! So
unsentimental! Altogether sexless!”
They shake their heads again, in pity, reflecting that the poor girl is
missing all the most delicious of life’s sensations. But since they are
ever hopeful, they linger awhile, to make sure that the _gringo_ did
not err in stating that her smiles meant nothing.
X
Salvador has the smallest foreign colony of any Central-American
country. Since it is entirely a coffee country, and since
Central-Americans are essentially coffee planters, it has little need
for outsiders.
It judges the _gringo_ largely by the occasional deluges of tourists
who make the brief automobile journey up from the port of La Libertad
during their “Go-from-New-York-to-Frisco-through-the-Panama-Canal”
trip. As this is the only capital hereabouts that can be reached
within a couple of hours from the seacoast, they all rush up the
mountains to laugh at “one of those ridiculous little countries that O.
Henry used to write about!”
One group came up during my sojourn.
They came in five automobiles, pausing at the central _plaza_ to
exclaim, “So this is Paris!” They looked at the leading hotel--an
unimpressive but comfortable establishment--and roared, “There’s the
Ritz!” They stopped for dinner, and demanded _frijoles_, having learned
the name of that dish from Latin-American fiction, and being anxious to
tell their friends at home about a real native dinner. They waited with
much trepidation, having heard that all native dishes were peppery. And
when the waiter brought _frijoles_, they screamed with laughter.
“We tried in every way to explain to that little brown fellow that we
wanted a native dinner,” each would later tell the people at home, “and
what do you think he brought us? Beans! Just think of it! Beans!”
After lunch they rode about town again. The monument in the central
_plaza_ interested them. The suspender-manufacturer from Buffalo
called it “Napoleon crossing the Delaware.” Great applause greeted the
sally. Thereafter, pleased with his success, the wit rode through town
standing up in the front seat, and shouting through megaphoned hands
his descriptions of the other sights.
Old-Timers damned him, as they always damn the tourist.
“He’s the sort,” they said, “that brings us all into disrepute.”
But the natives merely smiled. They were accustomed to this
oft-repeated phenomenon. When asked their opinion of the tourists, they
merely replied, “All of them seemed very jolly, _señor_.”
XI
The sort of American who brings us all into disrepute is, in reality, a
much over-damned specimen. He is a comparative rarity. Most travelers,
and most permanent residents in Latin America, go out of their way to
show themselves congenial and sympathetic to the natives.
We travel-writers love to picture the gruff, impolite American
because he shows the reading public by contrast that we are cultured,
considerate persons, with an international breadth of mind that enables
us to appreciate foreign countries and foreign customs.
But the offensive fellow-countryman does exist.
“It is not so much that he is a low-class American,” explained a
Salvadorean gentleman with unusual frankness. “Usually he is one
who behaves very decently at home. Here he feels at liberty, in his
disrespect for a small country, to do as he pleases. One of your
diplomatic representatives a few years ago was expelled from the social
club at Tegucigalpa, because when drunk he would go out upon the
balcony to whoop and cheer and cast things at the pedestrians below.”
Our diplomatic and consular corps has sobered up since the days of O.
Henry, and the typical representative of our State Department no longer
sits in his hammock with a gin bottle, throwing banana peelings at the
parrot. But this incident I was able later to verify. And there was one
incident more.
“Not long ago, _señor_, two Americans came over the trail from
Guatemala in an automobile, and when asked for their names by our
police, they inscribed everything from the Prince of Wales to Jack
Johnson. The authorities are tracing them now, and if we catch them,
they shall learn what it means to show such insult to El Salvador!”
Salvador was a very pleasant place, but I decided to drift along.
Anyhow, news had just arrived that a revolution was threatening in
Honduras, the next republic on my itinerary. So I started in haste for
Honduras.