It is true that gold dust may be panned on every river in the district, and that there are but few spots which are utterly barren. By panning religiously, a native is able to make upwards to fifty cents a day with his pan, although their average return is considerably less. In lieu of our steel mining pan, they use a wooden bowl shaped like a Canton coolie hat which they term gaveta. This word in Spanish really means “dresser drawer,” and so, I presume, the term is local. The gaveta is fashioned in one piece from the trunk of a large tree, and as large trees are almost extinct on the island, it grows increasingly difficult each year to procure wooden pans. Gaveta are easily handled and, under tropical conditions, they are actually more efficient than the steel pan, as the sweat from one’s hands is enough to float gold out of the pan and back into the stream. Wood, unlike steel, does not seem to hold the grease on the surface of the water. The natives use a circular, swinging motion, not at all orthodox, but they are able to separate gold and black sand—the panner’s enemy—with great ease.

Being bored, lonesome, and broke I found a gaveta and attempted to ascertain by experiment the true quantities of alluvial gold in the rivers of Corozal, and by this method to uncover the lode source of all the gold of the region. But wherever I went throughout the area, the amount of gold was dishearteningly constant and refused to point by concentration to any surface source. This was an odd fact and is rather hard to grasp as there must be, by all known laws of geology, a concentration point or a mother lode. But there was not and I was greatly puzzled.

After wearing out my boots within a space of two months I contented myself with listening to stories hoping that my hotel landlady would remember something of her religion when I stalled her off another time.

That hotel really deserves mention. It was a one-story structure on the corner of the plaza directly across the street from the jail. The floors were innocent of paint, the windows of glass, the building of silence, but the food was far from innocent of that substance close to the heart of the Spaniard—garlic. The landlady was quite the character of the town—a jolly overweight soul who had worn out two husbands and had divorced a third. But aside from her continual chatter at the top of her voice, she was quite easy on the nerves.

My room was directly over a pigsty, and through the cracks in the floor I could view the amiable beasts moving to and fro. My window faced a blank wall three feet away, and my mosquitoes were quite the largest ever seen in the captivity of a mosquito net.

Corozal itself was a boisterous little town which housed five thousand people on the four streets which surrounded the plaza. It was a standard West Indian village with its church in the center of the public square and the sewer system in the middle of the streets. Small though it was, it was not without excitement. Western thrillers could be viewed each night at the cine, drunken Spanish caballeros were forever disputing the police, and at least once a day some major crime would dart forth to amaze the populace. For instance, one day a small boy made off with three of my landlady’s pennies, to be led away weeping. It was well that he wept, for he was to spend the next few years in a reformatory.

Spaniards are death on crime and make every provision for its prompt apprehension and punishment. They mete out as much as three months in jail to he who would slay his neighbor in cold blood. And the sentence is usually passed upon the offender for his audacity in carrying a concealed weapon. As the government permit costs thirty-five dollars, the price is above the purse of the hillman, and the majority of them are forced to carry their weapons without the sanction of the law. A seven-inch knife is also considered a concealed weapon even when worn in plain sight, though the natives swing their two-foot machetes from their belts without molestation.

The Sample Pick Saga Continued...

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