n converse quite easily with the Monsanto brothers
in their drawing-room, or with the political exiles on the balconies
of the Hotel Commercial. The streets are narrow and, like the streets
of Holland, paved with round cobblestones as clean as a pan of rolls
just ready for the oven. Willemstad is the cleanest port in the West
Indies. It is the Spotless Town of the tropics. Beyond the town are
the orange plantations, and the favorite drive is from Willemstad
through these orange trees around the inner harbor, or the Schottegat,
to Otrabanda, and so back across the drawbridge of Good Queen Emma
into Willemstad. It is a drive of little over two hours, and Roddy and
Peter found it altogether charming.

About three miles outside of Willemstad they came upon the former
home of a rich Spanish planter, which had been turned into a
restaurant, and which, once the Groot du Crot, was now the Cafe
Ducrot. There is little shade on the Island of Curacao and the young
men dived into the shadows of the Ducrot garden as into a cool bath.
Through orange trees and spreading palmettos, flowering bushes and a
tangle of vines, they followed paths of pebbles, and wandered in a
maze in which they lost themselves.

"It is the enchanted garden of the sleeping princess," said Peter.
"And there are her sleeping attendants," he added, pointing at two
waiters who were slumbering peacefully, their arms stretched out upon
the marble-top tables.

It seemed heartless to awaken them, and the young men explored further
until they found a stately, rambling mansion where a theatrical
landlord with much rubbing of his hands brought them glasses and
wonderful Holland gin.

"We must remember the Cafe Ducrot," said Roddy, as they drove on. "It
is so quiet and peaceful."

Afterward they recalled his having said this, and the fact caused them
much amusement.

From the Cafe Ducrot the road ran between high bushes and stunted
trees that shaded it in on either side; but could not shade it
completely. Then it turned toward Otrabanda along the cliff that
overlooks the sea.

On the land side was a wall of dusky mesquite bushes, bound
together by tangled vines, with here and there bending above them a
wind-tortured cocoanut palm. On the east side of the road, at great
distances apart, were villas surrounded by groves of such hardy trees
and plants as could survive the sweep of the sea winds. "If we ask the
driver," whispered Roddy, "who lives in each house, he