214 ALBACORA 



Guayaquil. During the flight, odors from the crates of 

 fishbones we took with us made several passengers ill, 

 but we were used to odors. We reached home, bat- 

 tered but healthy, in less than one full day. 



That night, only forty-eight hours out of the jungle 

 of Ecuador, Lou climbed into white tie and tails and I 

 squeezed into a tight, ofF-the-shoulder evening gown. 

 Then we went to a charity ball at the Hotel Plaza in 

 New York City. My hair was frizzled and my skin 

 was blotched with flea bites, and some people close to 

 me at dinner seemed to be staring in surprise. Only 

 when Lou explained that I was suff'ering from a rare 

 and virulent South American disease, closely allied to 

 bubonic plague, did most of them turn away. 



Even in the bright and formal atmosphere of the 

 Plaza, it was hard for either of us to put Bosco out 

 of our minds. "He's still roaming off" Iquique," I said 

 abruptly, "daring us to go back after him." 



"Well, let's go back, then," Lou said. "Let's go 

 back damn soon." 



There was champagne in front of us and we lifted 

 our glasses. 



"To the day we find Bosco," Lou said. 



I hope the old bones hold out. 



