Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1929-08-25

oneself were completely non-existent. and the
one they used for pots and pans was never
left unguarded.
Basse Terre was also q little short on plumb
ing. The system Of sanitation was very simple.
Once a day, II Vinita happened to think of 1t,
she would collect whatever refuse had accumu-
lated about the house and heave it from an
upper window In the general direction of the
gutter. In theory. the stream which gushed
from the hills above and flowed seward through
the center Of every principal street was sup
posed to pick ny such trash and carry 1t into
the bay. But vinita, like many another Guade-
lOupian housekeeper, was not q perfect marks
man. In strolling the narrow alleys it was
always advisable to keep a wary eye aloft.
BaSse Terre might be completely fascinating
In its vivid local color, but there were times,
when the breeze ceased blowing, that it had
too much atmosphere.
ITO take one away from the city there was
a local bus of the rubberneck type that
left several times daily for the suburb of st.
Claude, an hours ride from the port, and
one day I booked passage. Its departure was
marked by considerable formality: every one
had to buy tickets In advance; and leave-tak-
ings on the part Of passengers were as poignant
as though we were setting out for LasSa or
Timbuktu. But 1t was a typically gay crowd
IliabI Auiduy uSAC OA UWdIu JVc LllllS, NIlUOp~
ing and cheering, and waving to every one
along the trail.
THE idyllic beauty of the country made me
hate Basse Terre when I returned that eve
ming. Its heat! It's stencil! Its dim, depress-
ing alleys!
All the color that had charmed ne on my
first night was abhorrent on the fifteenth. Even
that barbaric, infectious laughter seemed
ghoulish and profane!
Vinita was waiting in the doorway.
You don't 60? You don sail IN de boad?'
Boat! Boat! What boatS'
Dat French boad what jes' stop In"
Ye gods! Countless natives almost fell from
the balconies along the way as they leaned
far out to applaud my furious race to catch
the ship. / reached the waterfront just in
time to see the sternlights disappear. I'd
missed it!
1t was Baynes, the cable man, who brought
me another ray Of hope.
/ had formed the habit of idling in his
Office, for he was o companionable sort, and
the tick of his instruments was a cheering re-
hinder that we were still in touch with q
world beyond Basse Terre.
"Foster!" he hailed, as I climbed his steps
one morning. i've just intercepted a mes
sage. The Colombo calls at Pointe-a-Pitre on
the other side Of the island. Can't say when.
I don't even know what sort Of a boat she is.
But you'd better hop over there. She's bound
for Trinidad"
I hoped at once. The distance was about
40 miles, and I had missed the morning bus,
but ] was unencumbreed with baggage except
for two extra collars and a night shirt, so I
promptly hit the trail.
The road led along the coast. Beyond a
fringe of COCO palms the reefs stood out in
emerald green against the deeper blue. and
islands dotted the horizon-the tiny Saintes,
a cluster of cleaning rocks, and Marie Galante.
q frowning shadow in the background.
Along the way the country folk were coming
In to market. They seemed a simpler people
than those ] had met in town: far from laugh-
ing At a stranger, they appeared Almost Shy at