The Colossus | Page 2

not signed, the paper alone received the credit. Year after year he
lived in this unsettled way--reading in the public library, musing at his
own fireside, catching glimpses of an important work which the future
seemed to hold, and waiting for the outlines of that work to become
more distinct; but the months went by and the plan of the work
remained in the shadow of the coming years.
DeGolyer had now reached that time of life when a wise man begins
strongly to suspect that the past is but a future stripped of its delusions.
He was a man of more than ordinary appearance; indeed, people who
knew him, and who believed that size grants the same advantages to all
vocations, wondered why he was not more successful. He was tall and
strong, and in his bearing there was an ease which, to one who

recognizes not a sleeping nerve force, would have suggested the idea of
laziness. His complexion was rather dark, his eyes were black, and his
hair was a dark brown. He was not handsome, but his sad face was
impressive, and his smile, a mere melancholy recognition that
something had been said, did not soon fade from memory.
One afternoon DeGolyer called at the office of a morning newspaper,
and was told that the managing editor wanted to see him. When he was
shown in he found an aspiring politician laughing with forced
heartiness at something which the editor had said. To the Southern
politician the humor of an influential editor is full of a delirious
mellowness.
When the politician went out the editor invited DeGolyer to take a seat.
"Mr. DeGolyer, a number of your sketches have been well received."
"Yes, sir; they have made me a few encouraging enemies."
The editor smiled. "And you regard enemies as an encouragement, eh?"
"Yes, as a proof of success. Our friends mark out a course for us, and if
we depart from it and do something better than their specifications call
for, they become our enemies."
"I don't know but you are right." After a short silence the editor
continued: "Mr. DeGolyer, we have been thinking of sending a man
down into Costa Rica. Our merchants believe that if we were to pay
more attention to that country we might thereby improve our trade.
What we want is a number of letters intended to familiarize us with
those people--want to show, you understand, that we are interested in
them."
They talked during an hour. The nest day DeGolyer was on board a
steamer bound for Punta Arenas. On the vessel he met a young man
who said that his name was Henry Sawyer; and this young man was so
blithe and light-hearted that DeGolyer, yielding to the persuasion of
contrast, was drawn toward him. Young Sawyer was accompanied by
his uncle, a short, fat, and at times a crusty old fellow. DeGolyer did
not think that the uncle was wholly sound of mind. One evening, just
before reaching port, and while the two young men were standing on
deck, looking landward, young Sawyer said:
"Do you know, I think more of you than of any fellow I ever met?"
"I don't know it," DeGolyer answered, "but I am tempted to hope so."
"Good. I do, and that's a fact. You see, I've led a most peculiar sort of

life. I never had any home--that is, any real home. I don't remember a
thing about my father and mother. They died when I was very young,
and then my uncle took me. Uncle never married and never was
particularly attached to any one place. We have traveled a good deal;
have lived quite a while in New Orleans, but for the past two years we
have lived in a little bit of a place called Ulmata, in central Costa Rica.
Uncle's got an interest in some mines not far from there. Say, why
wouldn't it be a good idea for you to go to Ulmata and write your letters
from there? Ain't any railroad, but there's a mule line running to the
coast. How does it strike you?"
"I'd like to, but I'm afraid that it would take my letters too long to reach
New Orleans; still, I don't know what difference that would make, as
I'm not going to write news. After all," he added, as though he were
arguing with himself, "I should think that the interior is more
interesting than the coast, for people don't hang their characteristics
over the coast line."
"There, you've hit the nail the very first lick. You go out there with us,
and I'll bet we have a magnificent time."
"But your uncle might object."
"How can he? It ain't any of his business where you go."
"Of course not."
"Well,