“This is a fresh offense,” the judge took the cue promptly. “This Gringo dog has blasphemed against the law.” “Then shall he be tried, and tried now, right here, immediately. We will not bother to go back and reopen court. We shall try him, and when we have disposed of him, we shall proceed. I have a very good bottle of wine——” “I care not for wine,” the judge disclaimed hastily. “Mine shall be mescal. And in the meantime, and now, having been both witness and victim of the offense and there being no need of evidence further than what I already possess, I find the prisoner guilty. Is there anything you would suggest, Senor Mariano Vercara é Hijos?” “Twenty-four hours in the stocks to cool his heated Gringo head,” the Jefe answered. “Such is the sentence,” the judge affirmed, “to begin at once. Take the prisoner away, gendarmes, and put him in the stocks.” * * * * * Daybreak found Henry in the stocks, with a dozen hours of such imprisonment already behind him, lying on his back asleep. But the sleep was restless, being vexed subjectively by nightmare dreams of his mountain-imprisoned companions, and, objectively, by the stings of countless mosquitoes. So it was, twisting and squirming and striking at the winged pests, he awoke to full consciousness of his predicament. And this awoke the full expression of his profanity. Irritated beyond endurance by the poison from a thousand mosquito-bites, he filled the dawn so largely with his curses as to attract the attention of a man carrying a bag of tools. This was a trim-figured, eagle-faced young man, clad in the military garb of an aviator of the United States Army. He deflected his course so as to come by the stocks, and paused, and listened, and stared with quizzical admiration. “Friend,” he said, when Henry ceased to catch breath. “Last night, when I found myself marooned here with half my outfit left on board, I did a bit of swearing myself. But it was only a trifle compared with yours. I salute you, sir. You’ve an army teamster skinned a mile. Now if you don’t mind running over the string again, I shall be better equipped the next time I want to do any cussing.” “And who in hell are you?” Henry demanded. “And what in hell are you doing here?” “I don’t blame you,” the aviator grinned. “With a face swollen like that you’ve got a right to be rude. And who beat you up? In hell, I haven’t ascertained my status yet. But here on earth I am known as Parsons, Lieutenant Parsons. I am not doing anything in hell as yet; but here in Panama I am scheduled to fly across this day from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Is there any way I may serve you before I start?” “Sure,” Henry nodded. “Take a tool out of that bag of yours and smash this padlock. I’ll get rheumatism if I have to stick here much longer. My name’s Morgan, and no man has beaten me up. Those are mosquito-bites.”