eachcombing sourdoughs have sought the illusive gold throughout the West Indies since the day the conquistadors deserted the islands for the more fruitful fields and festering swamps of Central and South America.
Each valley in the Antilles seems to harbor a legend concerning the Americanos who spent their fortunes
and sometimes their lives in their feverish hunt.
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The archives of the country islands are crammed with receipts for the gold bullion which gorged the coffers of medieval Spain and kept alive her glory, and we go upon the theory that it was not possible for the Spaniards to have exhausted the entire mineral wealth of the islands—and the tap of the sample pick is accordingly heard from Cuba to Trinidad—although West Indian bonanzas still belong to a hazy future.
However, to go gold prospecting in the wake of the conquistadors, on the hunting grounds of the pirates in the islands which still reek of Columbus, is romantic, and I do not begrudge the sweat which splashed in the muddy rivers, and the bits of khaki which have probably blown away from the thorn bushes long ago.
![[Picture]](Img/Pg17_2.jpg)
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