“They were pretty anxious to see him down there, and the Mexican National aviation field was crowded long before Lindy was due to get there. Everybody knew that this was one flyer who always got places when he said he’d get there. He was never off schedule. So imagine how everybody felt when the time set by him to reach Mexico City passed, and no Lindy showed up. Well, they were all set to call out the reserves, when Slim Lindbergh winged into sight, and made a sweet landing on the Mexican field. “There was some cheering—more, maybe than if he’d got there on schedule, although you don’t see how that could be possible. They gave Lindy a chance to explain that he’d been lost in the fog, and then they went on with their entertaining and celebrating. “Mexico City was pretty important to Lindbergh, although nobody knew it then. Dwight Morrow was Ambassador to Mexico then, and he had a daughter named Anne. Well, I don’t like to get sentimental—I guess I can’t tell romantic stories—well, anyway, that part comes later.” Captain Bill saw fit to interrupt the story here. He saw that Bob was embarrassed, and saw an opportunity to rub it in. “What part?” he asked, innocently, knocking the heel of ash from his pipe as he did so. “Oh, you know, Lindy’s marrying Anne Morrow, and that.” “Well, we certainly demand the whole thing. You can’t leave anything out,” insisted Bill. “Aw, all right, but it doesn’t come in now.” “We can wait,” said Bill, and settled back satisfied. “From Mexico City,” went on Bob, grateful that his ordeal bad been put off, “Lindy flew off down to Central America. First he zig-zagged a bit to get in all of the little countries, and went from Guatemala City to Belize in British Honduras, and then back again to San Salvador, and from then on straight down the narrow isthmus to Teguci—Teguci—well, that place in Honduras.” “Tegucigalpa,” said Pat. “That’s it,” said Bob. “And from Teguci—and from there, he went on to Managua, and then to Costa Rica—San Jose. Now he was just about three hundred and twenty-five miles from the Panama Canal, as the crow flies—or rather, as Lindy flies, which is much better than any crow I’ve ever seen. He didn’t have any trouble making the flight, and say that they weren’t glad to see him down there, especially in the Canal Zone, where the Americans lived. They entertained him royally, and he went into the jungles of Panama for a hunting trip, which must have been great. They have all sorts of wild hogs, deer and pheasants, and it must have made grand hunting. “But after all, Lindy couldn’t stay anyplace very long. South America was waiting for him. So he packed himself off, and flew to Cartagena, in Colombia, adding another continent to his list. From Cartagena he flew to Bogota, and then straight across the top of South America to the east coast. He stayed at Maracay, Venezuela. I never heard of it before, did any of you?” Bob paused dramatically for a reply.