As the party threaded their way through the strange gathering, hails constantly reached them. "Where you from?" "Hello, Georgians!" "Say, you're too late for the _California_." "You needn't hurry, misters." "How's the trail?" "Oh, misters! Got a ticket to San Francisco?" And so forth, and so forth. The street opened into a large public square, or plaza, surrounded by stores and fruit stands, and supplied with benches under the palms and magnolias. On three sides the streets gave views of the ocean. Many people were lounging about, but it was no place to stop and rest, for _this_ party. No, not when the favorite hail said, "You're too late," and when, as emphasis, there lay the _California_ with smoking stacks. "We'd better go right on down to the beach, Grigsby, hadn't we?" queried Mr. Adams; and he spoke shortly to Pablo, directing him. So they crossed the plaza (where several tents had been erected by stranded gold seekers), and took another street which led straight through a gateway in a crumbling wall to the water. Panama was built upon a long point, and the ocean washed it on three sides, bordered by a beautiful sandy beach unbroken by wharves or piers. Line after line of surf came rolling in, the last line shattered by the shallows before it reached the shore. Southward were high mountains, veiled in mist. Far out across the white-flecked blue rose green islands. Between the islands and the curving shore lay several ships at anchor--one of them the _California_. Just beyond the inner line of surf were stationed a regular flotilla of canoes; their boatmen were lounging about on the beach, alert for passengers, and at sight of the little procession of travelers filing down they made a grand rush. "This way, senors!" "One _medio_ to big ship, senors." "My canoe biggest." "Try me, senors. Ver' hones'." "No. I hones', senors." Plainly enough the only way to get out to the _California_ was by canoe. Mr. Adams tried to make himself heard. More gold seekers were loafing and waiting on the beach; and these added their shouts and advice to the clamor of the boatmen. "Going out to the _California_, strangers?" demanded a red-shirted man, pushing his way through the uproar. "Yes." "No use. She won't take you. She's full up and all ready to sail. Don't listen to these boatmen. All they want is a fare. You might just as well unpack, and wait for the next boat, like the rest of us." "We'll go out, anyhow," declared Mr. Adams. He picked on one of the jostling boatmen--a yellow fellow with a tiny moustache and earrings. "Two boats," he said, holding up two fingers. "The _California_." "Si, si," nodded the boatman. He beckoned to a partner, who sprang to help him; and the remainder of the boatmen calmly dispersed and sat down again.