I took the first ship for Halifax and went from there to St. John, New Brunswick, where I bought the fore and aft schooner “George V. Richards.” She was a trim-looking craft of about one hundred and eighty tons, and stanch, but, as I discovered later, as faddish as an old maid. We never could trim her to suit her and she never behaved twice the same under similar conditions. In the same weather she would settle back on her stern like a balky mule or sail like a racing yacht, just as the spirit moved her. Yet I was fond of her, for she was a great deal like myself; she had her wits about her all of the time and was at her best in an emergency. I took her to Bridgeport, Connecticut, where I loaded up with old Sharps and Remington rifles and a lot of ammunition, and, after burying them under sixty tons of coal, sailed for Venezuela to see what was going on in Guzman’s absence. Instead of going direct to La Guaira, where I was well known, I headed for Maracaibo, the city that gave Venezuela its name. Alonzo de Ojeda, who followed Columbus, sailed westward along the coast of Terra Firme, which the Great Discoverer had spoken of as “the most beautiful lands in the world,” to the Gulf of Maracaibo. There he found several Indian villages built on piles and, prompted by this suggestion, he named the land Venezuela, or “Little Venice.” Maracaibo has a splendid harbor for light-draft vessels, and but for the fact that it has been subject to the whims of successive plundering presidents it would now be the chief city of the country. Not only is it the port of a great and rich section of Venezuela, but it is the only outlet for the coffee and other products of a large part of Colombia. Ever since their separation there has been ill-feeling between the two republics, and it has suited the fancy of every Venezuelan president since Guzman’s day, Castro being the chief offender, to spasmodically shut off all communication with Colombia, with consequent disastrous effects to the trade of Maracaibo. As a partial offset to these recurrent embargoes, the city boasts of a brand of yellow fever that has actually made it famous, at least among travellers in South America. It is so mild that it is seldom fatal and wise folks who are ticketed for the interior of Venezuela go to Maracaibo and stay until they have had the fever and become immune.