THE LURE OF KAKTABO 7 



early days had any fewer sins to their credit than 

 Case's convicts — and I doubted it. 



Across my doorstep a line of leaf-cutting ants 

 was passing, each bearing aloft a huge bit of 

 green leaf, or a long yellow petal, or a halberd of 

 a stamen. A shadow fell over the line, and 1 

 looked up to see an anthropomorphic enlarge- 

 ment of the ants, — the convicts winding up the 

 steep bank, each with cot, lamp, table, pitcher, 

 trunk, or aquarium balanced on his head, — all 

 my possessions suspended between earth and sky 

 by the neck-muscles of worthy sinners. The first 

 thing to be brought in was a great war-bag 

 packed to bursting, and Number 214, with eight 

 more years to serve, let it slide down his shoul- 

 der with a grunt — the self-same sound that I 

 have heard from a Tibetan woman carrier, and 

 a Mexican peon, and a Japanese porter, 

 all of whom had in past years toted this very 

 bag. 



I led the way up the steps, and there in the 

 doorway was a tenant, one who had already 

 taken possession, and who now faced me and 

 the trailing line of convicts with that dignity, 

 poise, and perfect self-possession which only a 

 toad, a giant grandmother of a toad, can ex- 



