A HUNT FOR HOATZINS 



LINES of gray, plunging tropic rain slanted 

 across the whole world. Outward-curving 

 waves of red mud lost themselves in the steady 

 downpour beyond the guards on the motor-car 

 of the Inspector of Police. It is surprising to 

 think how many times and in what a multitude 

 of places I have been indebted to inspectors of 

 police. In New York the average visitor would 

 never think of meeting that official except under 

 extraordinary and perhaps compromising cir- 

 cumstances; but in tropical British possessions 

 the head of the police combines with his requisite 

 large quantity of gold lace and tact a delightful 

 way of placing visitors, and especially those of 

 serious scientific intent, under considerable obli- 

 gation. So my present Inspector of Police, at 

 an official banquet the preceding evening, had 

 insisted that I travel along the seafront of 



92 



