de Nanche." The nearest overseer happened to be half way across the field and the slave, at our inquiry, willingly pointed out the slough of the alligators and confirmed the story of dying men being thrown to "The Hungry."
"I have been here for six years and I believe I hold the record for the valley," he told us. "Other strong men come and turn to skeletons in a single season, but it seems that I cannot die. They come and fall, and come and fall, yet I stay on and live. But you ought to have seen me when I came! I was a man then—a man! I had shoulders and arms—I was a giant then. But now—"
Tears gathered in the fellow's eyes and rolled down his cheeks, but he went on:
"I was a carpenter and a good one—six years ago. I lived with my brother and sister in Mexico City. My brother was a student—he was only in his teens—my sister tended the little house that I paid for out of my wages. We were not poor—no. We were happy. Then work in my trade fell slack and one evening I met a friend who told me of employment to be had in the State of Veracruz at three pesos a day—a long job. I jumped at the chance and we came together, came here—here! I told my brother and sister that I would send them money regularly, and when I learned that I could send them nothing and wrote to let them know, they would not let me send the letter! For months I kept that letter, watching, waiting, trying to get an opportunity to speak to the carrier as he rode along the highway. At last I saw him, but when I handed him the letter, he only laughed in my face and handed it back. Nobody is allowed to send a letter out of here.
"Escape?" went on the ploughman. "Yes, I tried it many times. Once, only eight months ago. I got as far as
