he thought he saw the figure of a woman. He thought she wore a scarlet dress and that she was waving a white handkerchief to him. He was not sure. He went on, past the barrooms, the tawdry hotels, the liquor stores, the wooden causeway leading to the Customs House.
An inspector opened his bag.
"Five dollars fine for the pint of rye," he said curtly.
Ken smashed the bottle on the pavement.
'Til take five days in jail," he said.
"Get the hell outa Mexico and stay out," said the inspector.
"Pronto—and muchas gracias," Ken grinned.
In National City, he stopped for a cup of coffee. His feet ached. He decided to hail an automobile. Limousines swept by on well oiled springs. A battered Ford, driven by a sailor, halted.
The sailor was a little tight. He sang a song of Singapore—"Learned it in a crib over there from a limey jane."
"Lord knows what a woman is for,
You can't find out in Singapore.
A tiger makes a rug so nice,
A she-cat catches all the mice,
An elephant's ivory is white as snow,
But what is a woman? You'll never know.
Her claws are sharp, her teeth are white;
She lies in wait for you through the night.
The trap she lays is dark and deep,
Its mouth is wide, its sides are steep.
She's the huntress—you're her prey—”
