You must know that Ratona is an island twenty miles off the south of a South American republic. It is a port of that republic; and it sleeps sweetly in a smiling sea, toiling not nor spinning; fed by the abundant tropics where all things "ripen, cease and fall toward the grave."
Eight hundred people dream life away in a green- embowered village that follows the horseshoe curve of its bijou harbour. They are mostly Spanish and Indian mestizos, with a shading of San Domingo Negroes, a lightening of pure-blood Spanish officials and a slight leavening of the froth of three or four pioneering white races. No steamers touch at Ratona save the fruit steamers which take on their banana inspectors there on their way to the coast. They leave Sunday newspapers, ice, quinine, bacon, watermelons and vaccine matter at the island and that is about all the touch Ratona gets with the world.
The Pajaro paused at the mouth of the harbour, roll ing heavily in the swell that sent the whitecaps racing beyond the smooth water inside. Already two dories from the village -- one conveying fruit inspectors, the other going for what it could get -- were halfway out to the steamer.
The inspectors'' dory was taken on board with them, and the Pajaro steamed away for the mainland for its load of fruit.Θ本Θ作Θ品Θ由Θ思Θ兔Θ網Θ提Θ供Θ線Θ上Θ閱Θ讀Θ