Dick was silent for the next few minutes. On the whole, he thought he would like Fuller, and made some allowance for the excitement he, no doubt, felt at beginning his career in a foreign country, but none for any wish to impress his companion. It was unlikely that the self-possessed lad would care what Dick thought of him, although it looked as if he meant to be friendly. Then as the sweating mules slowly climbed the rutted track out of the town Dick began to point out the changing level of the land, the ravines, or barrancos, that formed natural drainage channels from the high watershed, and the influence of drought and moisture on the cultivation. Jake showed a polite interest, but inquired what amusements were to be had in Santa Brigida, about which Dick gave him as little information as possible. If he had understood Miss Fuller's hints, the Spanish city was no place for her brother. Jake spent the day following Dick about the works and made no complaint about the heat and dust, though he frowned when a shower of cement or a splash of oil fell upon his clothes. It was obvious that he knew nothing about engineering, but the questions he asked indicated keen intelligence and Dick was satisfied. A room adjoining the latter's quarters had been prepared for the newcomer, and they sat, smoking, on the veranda after the evening meal. "Do you think you'll like your work?" Dick asked. "I've got to like it, and it might be worse. Since I'm not allowed to draw or model things, I can make them, and I guess that's another form of the same talent, though it's considerably less interesting than the first." "But perhaps more useful," Dick suggested. "Well, I don't know. Our taste is pretty barbarous, as a rule, and you can't claim that yours is more advanced, but I allow that the Spaniards who built Santa Brigida had an eye for line and color. These dagos have a gift we lack; you can see it in the way they wear their clothes. My notion is that it's some use to teach your countrymen to admire beauty and grace. We're great at making things, but there's no particular need to make them ugly." "Then you're a bit of an artist?" "I meant to be a whole one and might have made good, although the old man has not much use for art. Unfortunately, however, I felt I had to kick against the conventionality of the life I led and the protest I put up was a little too vigorous. It made trouble, and in consequence, my folks decided I'd better be an engineer. I couldn't follow their arguments, but had to acquiesce." "It's curious how you artists claim to be exempt from the usual rules, as if you were different from the rest of us."