sounded like pattering rain and clung in brown masses to the ties; by ox teams, and huts thatched like mushrooms; by naked brown babies and women rebozo-wrapped and wearing full ruffled skirts. If not rebozowrapped, they wore white head pads, and balanced on them great straw trays from which they sold fried chicken wrapped in plantain leaves, tortilla and papaya cut in brilliant orange crescents. Among them stalked buzzards with the familiarity of barnyard fowls.

At Esquintla, we came upon a dusky market-place with women grouped about baskets and trays of brilliant fruits. If not under trees, they were under squares of canvas mounted on tall poles. Beyond the market one got a glimpse of a cracked cathedral.

We were two days off Corinto, all green islands and palmy points, clearcut mountains and pelicans. During the day, gourd and cocoanut sellers squatted on the wharf; and the volcano spouted, while a wistful shark snooped about the bathing pools near shore. The heat was intense and we longed for a sight of Panama.

On we sailed past white ships waiting to be piloted, past fortified island, past the canal opening, its channel marked with tall white mountains. We docked at five, the hour of home-going

for the workers.

In the glare of the day, Panama looks a bit tawdry and shabby, but at night, seen from a balcony against the light that streams through some open Venetian window, or among the palm

shadows of the plaza-then she comes into her own.

After dinner, step into one of the little carriages that edge the plaza and take a drive. Through the dark, narrow streets you will go, where only one on foot can pass you; by the sea wall from whose turrets sentries look down into the prison court; by the Presidential Palace, with a glimpse of palmy court and lolling guard; by cock-pit and dusky abattoir; under dark, closeshuttered balconies; across into the zone and up the hill, between rows of palms; among American bungalows; by great hospitals and barracks and stables; by the Administration building, huge on a hill and flooded with light; and down again to where the band plays in the plaza. We get a glimpse through some cafe door of a dancer from Peru, or a group of negroes rapt before some cafe accordion; we see bright little shop windows and get a fleeting view of the Panamanian dance through some open balcony window which is nothing more than a waltz or quadrille; by the villa of some wealthy Panamanian up in the hills; by cane huts with leafy roofs; by khaki-clad soldiers and natives. Cathedral, courthouse, nunnery, broken

towers and shattered arches are all outlined with the delicate tracery of tiny palm and fern and vine.

We follow the canal. We listen to the water; see from our car the canal channel where it hugs the hills, and the white guide-towers that shine out of their jungle. Except for the red streak that marks Culebra Cut, everything that is not green is gray.

Yes, of course, Jackie Roosa, prize student of the class in history, we hear you already quoting the lines from "Myles Standish" and recalling the pretty story of Priscilla, Puritan maiden; but, as a matter of fact, are you actually certain that Plymouth was the Pilgrims' first landing place?

Plymouth Rock, carefully marked and preserved there, with a splendid stone canopy set around and over, to commemorate the affair!

Yes, it's true; but as a matter of fact, just where did those Pilgrims land?

You are not so much to blame,

friend, for answering "Plymouth," for about nine hundred and ninety-nine people in every thousand would answer the same, so quickly do errors spread, once in history; but, before committing yourself on the point absolutely, supposing you look up some reliable text on the point.

Strangely enough, you will discover, a bit to your chagrin, that it was at the head of old Provincetown harbor, and not at Plymouth, that the Mayflower came to anchor, at the end of her anxious voyage, "after many difficulties in boisterous storms," and that it was there that she rode during the month of her stay in this her first western haven, while the chief men aboard her were searching for "an habitation."

Here, too, in her little cabin on that sombre November day of 1620, before a foot touched the shore, the famous compact for a "civil body, politick," perhaps, says John Quincy Adams, the only instance, in human history, of that social compact which philosophers have imagined as the only legitimate source of government, was drawn up and signed by all the males of the company who were of age, forty-one in number. The women and children of the company numbered fifty-nine.

Here was born Peregrine White, so named because of the peregrinations of his parents; the first white child that came into being in New England.

To be exact about it, the Mayflower dropped her anchor three-quarters of an English mile, it seems, off what is known locally as Long Point shore. The first landing there was made by a few of the men, who at once set about refitting the shallop which they had brought with them for use in discovering the coast. A number of women also went ashore to wash, and so, on Monday, November 13, was instituted the New England washing day. Then the entire company landed to refresh themselves, wading a ship's bow on account of the shallow shore, which the long boat could not reach.

All of which, and a thousand like details, had we time to repeat, making old Provincetown especially interest

ing as the scene of what was actually the first landing.

Thousands of strangers to New England go there by boat, simply to have made a pilgrimage to the scenes of this initial landing place; and each and all come away enthusiastic over what they have seen, not only along historic lines, but in and about the quaint town itself.

Your arrival is made through fogs, almost always hanging around Cape Cod, that give to the shores much the aspect they had worn at the time when the Pilgrims came. Overhead the sun will pour its radiance clear; round about is a solid wall of fog bank. Then, suddenly, run out of this, off at the left you make out the endless sand dunes, low hills next to the sea, and quite the same as in Old Colony times.

Only, now, coming in close here, there rises a new landmark, something the Pilgrims had not known. A giant tower steeples high from those dunes, its turret away up over the fog, its staunch stone walls built to withstand the stoutest winter gales. This is the famous Pilgrim monument, the climb up which not a few of the strangers make their first goal.

Fishing schooners fill the harbor as you ride on in; not a few are manned with a curious Portuguese fisher folk. A grey-painted life saving station and a lighthouse on the dunes tell of ocean dangers here; on other beaches the marshes in which the famous Cape Cod cranberries grow, begin to hold the eye. Traps for the fish are out in the sea; finally, prompt at one of the afternoon, you land.

seeing auto's driver shouts to take a six-mile ride for ten cents.

The auto looks inviting,-it's substantially the street car of the town, here, and has a button "pusher" on the back of each seat, to be pressed if you'd have the chauffeur stop for you. There being no street cars, this auto stops everywhere, and is used, of course, by

everyone.

Naturally, you board it also, as the best way for a first peep at Province

town.

The "way" starts at the Board of Trade building-fancy such an institution at the Pilgrims' landing place, -a neat, shingle structure, with portico out over the wharf. the wharf. Then, oldstyle frames or shingle homes, the dwellings of the fishermen, begin to charm the stranger's eye. Everything around Provincetown, though, is so quaint as to really charm you.

The streets are so very narrow, so winding, you want to go exploring among these forthwith. The little shops that supply all the needs of a New England fishing town want you to poke in these as well. Here and there there's a store given over to the needs of the summer colony of cottagers, just outside the town; but, time being short, you care nothing for these. In fact, if you're wise, you'll come very early in the summer season, when it's still cool and the summer invaders haven't really arrived, if you want to see Provincetown at its best.

On the right, as you ride, there stretches the same ocean the Mayflower rode; and the boats on this are, some of them, of a type one might have expected that vessel to greet on her return. Signs of "boiled lobster" lure you, on the house walls; meanwhile the auto goes on.

Most of the homes, you discover, stand back among very tall trees. These trees are largely a variety of cottonwood; the trunks, however, covered quite generally with a yellow lichen. Most of the houses swing a three-walled hammock in the groves thus; round about this a wee garden will be planted, as well. Every so

often, even in this residential part of town,a something or other will bring home to you the old shipping days. Thus, for one, some figurehead off a vessel, say the bust of a woman, will be mounted on the roof to the porch.

By and by you strike the outskirts; but you find this town of the first landing interesting, even here. The shingle cottages of the modern-day residenters, the summer comers, are being built, each and all, in exact imitation of the old fisher homes; and, thanks to this, it's extremely hard to tell a new house from an old one, and usually you prefer to leave the guess go by default. You think of Nantucket, where the builders are doing likewise; then are ready, once more, to

ride on.

You have come, now, to what are really the suburbs. Pretty places, their lawns enclosed by low hedges; here and there with a baby's "pen" in the yard; the sides of the crib fitted out with a counting-board attachment, surround on every hand. Pretty, indeed, these cottages for the summer; some, though, are really rather to be termed quaint, or odd; and all of them help to make interesting this touring of Province

town.

Behind you, in the distance, someone indicates a huge fish freezer; by that time you have come to the townedge and the dunes.

Of course, you have heard a great deal of the Cape Cod sand dunes and the yellow area of the sand, with just the occasional clump of herbage or shrubbery, reminds you of the deserts of which you have read. As you turn to get a birdseye view of the cottages closest by here, you get the tang of the fish on the shore, fish thrown here in such numbers that they must be gathered and buried by the town. You can't help but see these dead fish in places, the same sight the Pilgrim comers to this place, of course, knew.

By and by, taking the road which would lead you to Boston, you strike inland on the dunes. It's a neat little road, right through the sand, and it

lets you turn at the very edge of old Provincetown.

You return, then, much the same way, to the wharf, then ride on 'totherwise. A cold storage plant for the sea fish, then another great freezing plant, more quaint old homes, new houses built in imitation, hedge the way. You note that the sidewalk is on one side of the street only; this adds to the picturesqueness of the ancient, quaint place. Fish wharves follow fish wharves, and every so often you pass a man with the fish on his back. Then there follows a little store district, and this intended mostly for tourists, a toy store fills the window here with attractive, wee sails.

The street winds along and takes you past the town hall, then to where a church rises up from behind other homes. Between the houses where the

strips of lawn alternate, snatches of the Pilgrim monument are to be caught, too, from on high.

By about this time you have caught the idea, the spirit, of the city and things come to take on somewhat of a monotone. More fish cold storage establishments, there are six such in all here; more pretty places, one the queerer for the boulder wall to its yard at the sea; now and then past an artist on his way, sketching, (there's a

school of these here and, if you're lucky, you may come on all pupils at work on the beach); then a great inn, where the ultra-fashionable of the place gather.

Every so often the auto stops to take on or discharge travelers; it makes you think of the horse cars in use at one time at home.

Now and then you see summer tourists arrive for the year at their cottage and you almost envy them the delights in their store. Substantially everyone knows everyone else in the town here; that helps give the feeling of its being a very nice little town. The natives talk of fishing; the idle summer tourists of their rambles; and it's all interesting to overhear on the bus.

Come to route end, you return; take the boat, if you're returning to the city.

More than likely you'll stay over, if you possibly can. You want to climb the monument, tour a big fish freezing establishment, take a ride on the sand dunes, eat a lobster dinner, and so on.

That's to say, Provincetown, Mass., lures you, detains you; you are glad, after all, that the Pilgrims made it their first point of landing; but for that, the chances are it is indeed doubtful if you'd come.

ride, and I can sail a boat against any man I ever met."

"That's it!" swore his uncle, blowing up with rage. "Sail a boat! That's all you can do! That's all you own beyond a suit or two of clothes! Sail a boat!"

"I mean to," said Richard. "I'm only waiting for you to talk business first."

"What business? Balderdash! What d'you think I'll do for you?-a fail

ure! a disgrace to the Anthonys! Not one penny! Not one ha'penny!"

"You're disinherited! It's automatic. The estate provided for you while there was a chance to pass an examination. That ceased when you failed for the Indian civil. To inherit, an Anthony must enter one or other of the services. You know that. You failed. What are you here for? I'll support no able-bodied man!"

"Did you ever fight one?" wondered

Dick.

"What d'ye mean?"

"I'm giving you your choice. You fight or you pay me a thousand pounds; a thousand pounds was provided in the will for every Anthony in line of succession on entering any of the services. I want that thousand."

"You want-I've heard of impudence!" his uncle stammered.

"You either fight or pay," smiled Richard without moving.

"What d'ye mean?"

"I mean I'm entitled to the money and I've come for it. Don't answer yet. Listen! Just before old MacDougal died he told me how much you paid him to break my leg by accident. He quoted your actual words-'If he's not there, MacDougal, examination

time there'll be a hundred pounds for you.' He showed me the actual hundred-the actual bank notes you gave him. He offered them to me. His son Andry has the hundred now; he knows where it came from and for what, and he has tried to get me to take it."

The major's jaw dropped, but he spun on his heel in an attempt to blus

ter.

"What mare's nest is this?" he spluttered.

"He admitted that you bribed him, and I thrashed him for it just three weeks ago today. He and I are quits. He put the admission in writing and I had it witnessed; my lawyer has it now."

The major said nothing, thoughtfully. An officer-presumably a gentleman-found out at such expedients for saving money, is perhaps wiser if he does say nothing.

"Under the circumstances," continued Dick, "I applied for a commission in a hurry, and saw a lawyer. I know where I am and where you are. I've come for that thousand, and I'll take it now or fight-now, understand -not tomorrow or the day afternow! And I give you from now exactly five minutes to come to a decision! No, don't try to leave the room -I've got my eye on the bell, too— thirty seconds are up! Think, manyou'd better think!"

After one wild glance around him for a way of escape Major Anthony sat down and thought deliberately.

"I'll pay," he said quietly, pulling out his check book, just as Dick snapped his watch shut. "It's extortion, but I'll pay."

Dick watched him write the check, and watched him write and sign a letter to the Lamlash bankers in confirmation of it.

"Now I'm off," he said, putting both into his pocket. "You'll pay my four hundred a year to my lawyer, or he'll be after you to know why. There's only one thing more before I go-the sword -I'm heir-I've a right to it-I want it."

"No," said Major Wallace Anthony. "Possession," said Dick, walking to the mantelpiece, "is nine points of the law."

He took down a wonderful old claymore, basket-hilted, with a beryl set in the top of the hilt, and characters. etched rather rudely down the blade. It had no scabbard; and though the blade had been kept polished by almost unnumbered most unnumbered generations, the weapon looked older than the mantelpiece.

"I'll take it with me," said Dick, "and if you want it back you'll have to fight for it-except on one condition, of course. The day a direct heir is born I'll bring it back if I'm at the other end of the world. Failing an heir-remember the written evidence I hold against you-and-don't-letme-catch-you-again! Good day!"

Holding the strange sword by the