At Jaruca, the whole town joined us at luncheon. Only those who had been to Havana had seen an automobile and some of them had never heard of one. They were all timid. In addition to which, we were Americans. The interior Cubans have a very sensible respect for los Americanos. They are frank in their inspection of a stranger. At the café, where we sat at a corner table almost on the sidewalk, we were surrounded by the closely packed populace, that carefully examined our make-up, from toes to turbans, and discussed us in Spanish. Those who did not stick by us during the meal clustered about the car. Hunger is a preventive of embarrassment. Besides, we broke even with the town by scaring it out of its wits with an exhibition of fast and fancy driving on the way to the edge of the village. That afternoon we made good use of our hatchet. Many times there would be several drops, or great depressions, in the rock and at each place we would have to cut down underbrush alongside the path that we might get around the hole. Much of the driving was in deep trenches where the travel of many ox carts had worn the ruts into a ditch. For hundreds of yards we drove between these close walls of dirt, where the grass-covered ground, on either side, rose higher than the car. This ditch, winding past rows of huts in which lived sugar plantation laborers, debouched now and then into open territory, where the road was any feasible way among the shrubs, rocks, palms, and ruts. We began to tire under the hard work and were glad that the sun was sinking rapidly toward the line of hills back of us. We hoped to reach suitable shelter before dark, for we needed a night of real sleep. We struck the first river of consequence, and one of us waded through it to find out where and how we might cross. It was not difficult, but this was not the region of rivers. We had yet to cross the ones of which we had been warned. Rivers down there are both a blessing and a curse. They stop traffic and they stop thirst. There are but few wells. We struck one artesian well which supplied water for many square leagues. A league, incidentally, has its own meaning, being a colloquial measure of about a mile and a half, instead of the usual three miles implied by the marine kind. Most of the drinking water comes from the rivers. It is carried away in cans or water jars. The former are principally five-gallon kerosene cans saved for the purpose. It is not very good water and, unless obtained at a store, is given one to drink from a porron. A porron is a Spanish-made clay bottle with an opening at the top, through which to fill it, and a small nozzle on one side, through which to empty it. The use of the porron is the only visible evidence of cleanliness on the island. It is against all etiquette and many rules to touch the spout to the lips. You simply aim as well as you can and hit your mouth as often as you can.