THE LURE OF KARTABO a 
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 I 
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- 
