Here and
there a fleet of fishing-boats drifted. Far out in the roadstead
lay two cruisers, slate-gray and grim. The waters over-side purled
soothingly, the heavens beamed, the breeze was like a gentle
caress. The excursionists lost themselves in silent enjoyment.
Even before they had come to anchor a dozen boatmen were racing
for them and crying for their patronage. At the water's edge they
saw a tiny village nestled close against the mountains, its tiled
roofs rust-red and grown to moss, its walls faded by wind and
weather to delicate mauves and dove colors and greens impossible
to describe. Up against the slope a squat 'dobe chapel sat, while
just beyond reach of the tide was a funny little pocket-size
plaza, boasting a decrepit fountain and an iron fence eaten by the
salt. Backing it all was a marvellous verdure, tipped up on edge,
or so it seemed, and cleared in spots for pineapples.
The launch, when it came to rest, seemed suspended in air, and
beneath it lay an entrancing sea-garden. Once the engine had
stopped its clatter, a sleepy, peaceful silence settled over the
harbor, unbroken by wheel or whistle, for in Taboga no one works
and there are no vehicles.
"What a wonderful place!" exclaimed the young man, fervently.
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