of the Hotel Angelini, sipping his "swizzle" and studiously watching the Saturday evening crowds that passed back and forth through Panama's bustling railway station. He had watched the long line of rickety cabs backed up against the curb, the two honking auto-busses, the shifting army of pleasure-seekers along the sidewalks, the noisy saloons round which the crowds eddied like bees about a hive, and he was once more appraising the groups closer about him, when through that seething and bustling mass of humanity he saw Dusty McGlade pushing his way, a Dusty McGlade on whom the rum of Jamaica and the mezcal of Guatemala and the anisado of Ecuador had combined with the pulque of Mexico to set their unmistakable seal.
But three minutes later the two men were seated together above their "swizzles" and Blake was exploring Dusty's faded memories as busily as a leather-dip might explore an inebriate's pockets.
"Who 're you looking for, Jim?" suddenly
