As the country became flatter, sugar plantations became larger and more frequent. Now and then we would strike the railway, at a sugar mill siding or where it passed through some village. We scared the whole town of Limonar out of the lethargy into which it had sunk since the war. Isolated and without excitement save local brawls, dances and cock fights, the sudden bursting into its midst of a motor car, manned by Americans, was like the bursting of the first bomb of another war. Having stopped to buy oranges, the inhabitants—men, women, debutantes in sheath gowns of the original pattern, and little children—chased us as far as they could hold the pace. This was easy until we found a fairly level field and drove out into the loneliness of vast country where there is nothing except the rapid growth of wild plants and grasses. Recklessly we drove through deep grass, among the burned houses and ruined fences, always reminding us of the fact that we were probably the first to follow across these provinces in wake of the devastating armies of a decade past. Hidden in the grass were ruts that had been cut by heavily loaded ox carts years before and which had hardened almost like rock. Eventually we arrived at Tosca, a handful of huts set in a bleak region of grass, where there were not even palm trees to hide poverty and desolation. We had ceased to ask if we might stay. We simply announced ourselves and took what we could get. Here, it was a supper of our own canned stuff, purchased at Matanzas; eggs which we bought of one of the farmers at a dollar a dozen, and bread furnished by the hospitable family which had nothing else to offer, except the use of their living room. We ate by candlelight, under the curious gaze of astounded farmers, timid women, and the frightened glances of little babies, who sat on the floor and sucked sugar cane. Every time we gathered, in the evening, around some Cuban farmhouse table, we were impressed by the fact that our trip had two distinct parts and was, in reality, two distinct journeys. One was a journey by day, over a hard and trying land. The other was a journey by night, into many peculiar places. By day, we worked and studied the country. At night, we loitered and studied the people. Each day was complete in itself. We never paid attention to what had passed or to what might come. Perhaps, because we were tired, generally, it was easier than thinking, speculating, or planning, just to sit among the Cubans and be interested in them. Little things were mutually amusing.