There was nothing thrilling about my escape from Mexico. I simply rode down the railway to Vera Cruz, boarded a steamer without molestation, and sailed away.
The reflection that I was now a fugitive gave me a sense of international importance. It did seem a trifle uncomplimentary on the part of the Mexican government that no one sought to interfere with my departure. Still, there are some little slights that one is willing to overlook, especially if one be a fugitive.
Fellow travelers were always interested in my story.
Occasionally I ran across persons who had heard of my thrilling escape from the bandit camp of Pedro Zamorra. They demanded details. They were so insistent that it would have been a shame to disappoint them. I licked bandit after bandit for their benefit until completely fatigued.
Then, having begun to lose my original pride at the fictitious exploit, I adopted a policy of modest silence. Or I admitted, “That was all bunk!” This seemed to make it the more convincing.
“He’s reticent,” they said, “like all great heroes.”
Inspired by this success, I decided to quit free-lancing and become a fiction writer. I set out to roam the world in search of material. Since editors seldom bought the fiction I wrote, I roamed mostly on foot.
In various odd corners of the globe, I found other people who once had lived in Mexico. Most of them had fled the country during the long series of revolutions. Their property had been destroyed. In some cases their loved ones had been murdered. Yet I discovered—at first to my amazement—that they were all dreaming of the day when conditions would become settled, and permit them to return.
“Why?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. There’s something about that country. You can’t explain it.”
I wandered through the West Indies—to South America—to the Orient. I found many lands more colorful than Mexico, where native customs were more interesting, where foreigners were more welcome. Yet I found none that I liked so well, except Costa Rica, its Central-American neighbor. There gradually came to me a haunting desire to return. And when Carranza gave place to Obregon, and Obregon proceeded to restore peace and order, I packed my suit-case for another trip to Mexico—and to the other little republics to the southward.
“Why?” asked every one at home.
“Oh, I don’t know. There’s something about that country. You can’t explain it.”
My return was as uneventful as my flight.
I rather expected each Mexican I met to exclaim, “So you’re the fellow that wrote all those dastardly things about my country!” Apparently a few had forgotten my articles. The others had not heard of them.
I landed at Vera Cruz, and went up to the capital over the same railway—up through gorges luxuriant with forests of banana, past the snow-capped peak of Orizaba looming mistily out of the clouds, through tunnels and over bridges, along mountain sides where one looked down upon checkerboard farms as though one glimpsed them from an airplane, across the magnificent plateau where yellow wasteland stretched away to a purple horizon, and into the roar and bustle of Mexico City.
The capital had changed but little. If anything, it was noisier than before. Advertising posters defaced every wall. The taxis had multiplied like guinea pigs. Radios added a new note to the discord of modern progress. The señoritas had bobbed their hair. Old Barlow alone remained the same.
I stopped just long enough to make inquiries about Eustace. Since our parting, over four years ago, I had never heard a word from him.
“No one has!” said Old Barlow. “You were the lucky one that time. The other lad just disappeared—like I predicted both of you would. Just vanished, God knows where!”
I went back down the railway to Córdoba, to continue southward alone through Mexico and Central America.