reason for that
was I never found out. Every station I came to I was ordered off the
track, but the explanation that I was to work on the road was
satisfactory. To my inquiries as to how far the new road was situated,
the answer was always the same, "A few leagues farther." My five milreis
now came into requisition. Some time in the afternoon I went into a
general store and purchased a glass of wine, some crackers and cheese.
After my feast was over, I continued my journey. Soon I had come among
the coffee plantations. They looked like large cherry orchards with the
trees full of ripe fruit. Two coffee grains flat side together,
surrounded by a spongy fibre, then a tough, smooth skin, the whole about
the size of a large cherry--that is the coffee bean while on the tree.

I do not know how many miles I walked on the Terro Carril de Dom Pedro
III, but I was well tired out, and my head dizzy, from looking at the
numbers on the telegraph-poles. The same information--"A few leagues
farther on"--was becoming monotonous. Four milreis had been expended for
food. With but one milreis left I was getting discouraged. Suddenly I
changed my mind, and turned back for Rio de Janeiro. At the first
station I was ordered off the track. Then I had to walk on the wagon
road. One evening, about dusk, I arrived at the city, tired, hungry, and
footsore. Two "dumps"--large copper coins worth forty reis each--was the
last of my money. I invested one dump for a piece of cocoanut, the other
for bread. That was the last food I ever ate on Brazilian soil. I had
often heard sailors joking about "Mahogany Hotel-on-the-Beach," and
there I went for a night's lodging. A large pile of mahogany timber
hewed square for shipping, some pieces being several feet shorter than
others, would make a space large enough for a man to sleep in. No doubt
but that it was a very valuable edifice, but, at the same time, very
uncomfortable. My apartment was about eight feet in length and only
twenty inches in height and width. Early in the morning I was out of
bed, with no money nor breakfast, hardly knowing what to do. There was
only one thing to be done, that was to get on some vessel and get away
from the city. While walking around the docks, I met the "runner" from
Portuguese Joe's boarding-house. He was an American. I tried to avoid
him, but it was useless. He had seen and recognised me.

"Halloa, how long have you been ashore?" he asked.

"Oh, quite a long time,"