CHAPTER VIII 



SANTOS 



' Town, tower, 

 Shore, deep, 

 Where lower 

 Clouds steep; 

 Waves gray 

 Where play 

 Winds gay 

 All asleep. " Victor Hugo. 



WE left Rio about noon on September I2th, and 

 made our next call at Santos. The approach 

 to the city is by a narrow tidal river which threads its 

 way inland amidst mangrove-swamps, beyond which on 

 all sides rise high mountains. We took on a pilot as 

 we crossed the bar. He was a tall African from the 

 Cape Verde Islands. His ebony complexion was 

 matched by a rather natty uniform. I ventured later 

 to express to the captain my wonder at his being com- 

 pelled to entrust his responsibilities to the gentleman. 

 He laughingly responded, "You should see how I do 

 that. I give the orders, and he stands by and approves 

 and confirms them. No, sir; I do not resign my 

 responsibilities to black boys on this coast. I know 

 the coast better than they do. I have been on this run 

 for a lifetime. ' 



Santos used to be regarded as the most unhealthy 

 port in the American tropics. On the banks of the 



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