prisoners. These, however, succeeded in making their presence felt through the very walls. Bars and partitions apparently did not cut off social intercourse in a Mexican jail. The prisoners, for the most part Mexicans, incarcerated for petty indiscretions of lust and larceny, shouted blatant oaths in Spanish or sang ditties to the plangent plucking of the guitar which sounded mellifluous to an ear ignorant of the language, but which Ambrose nevertheless suspected to be highly obscene. There were señoras and señoritas too who howled and screamed without abatement.
This went on till upwards of one o'clock. At that hour Ambrose made a futile attempt to sleep. He did doze occasionally, but he had long since discovered that the resignation and calm which he had felt earlier in the evening had either been factitious or temporary. His jangled nerves refused to permit him to enjoy a satisfactory repose, and he was beginning to believe that his resources had been taxed to their utmost.
Since, about two weeks earlier, he had stepped aboard the Twentieth Century his life had gone awry. The first time in his career that he had made a definite and consciously initiative movement he had embroiled himself in serious difficulties. Now he was rapidly floating down a swiftly moving stream, too
