The fact that we brewed tea in huge cups and drank it in huge, hot gulps amused the Cubans. Courteously and gladly, they heated water and, then, laughed to see us pour it on the little green leaves. On the other hand, we were amused by the universal presence of sewing machines. The smaller and meaner the hut, the more prominently loomed the sewing machine. The real Cuban lives in almost squalor; dresses in almost rags. The squalor is accented by the sewing machine. Ragged pants are sewed together and patched, likewise. The Cuban has a few passions. He gratifies these and does not give a rap for anything else. The sewing machine is evidently one of the national passions—carefully cultivated by the enterprising foreign department of the sewing machine trust. But the greatest of Cuban passions is gambling. The lid is on bull-fighting and cock-fighting in Cuba. It is a leaky lid. When Saturday night comes, the ragged Cuban goes to a dirty corner in his dirty hut, raises a dirty board and brings out a dirty bag, in which are many dirty Spanish dollars. He places the bag carefully under one arm and under the other, still more carefully, he places his favorite little black rooster and starts off for the nearest cock pit. Money is merely a medium of wager. Our daily march was improving. We had gone forty-four miles. That evening we spent rearranging our supplies and tools in the tousled tonneau. Whatever we had that was not necessary we threw away, and placed our road implements where they would rattle the least, knock our shins the least, and yet be ready for instant use. Then we raised the top and entertained each other with merry persiflage, until we were sleepy enough to lay down in our clothes on benches within the hut and forget it. Sleep was our greatest need. Shivering through long wakeful hours of another night spent in our clothes, on hard boards, attacked by fleas, and awakened by the clamor of yawling dogs and puling chickens, we found a tonic in Rogelio, whom we called “Roe.” He was an excellent type of that dark-hued, wiry Cuban, whose well-chiseled features and wonderful black eyes are far superior to the alleged beauty of the Cuban woman. Some of the mahogany-tinted country women have such eyes, but never the señorita of the town. The latter is, in most cases, simply a human synonym for talcum powder. I would like to corner the powder market in Cuba. Rogelio was quaint, as well as handsome. Some ancestor had been a humorist and a philosopher. Rogelio became one of us. He made it easier for us to look up at the dark, thatched roof and to fill our sleepless moments with laughter instead of commiseration. Benavides to Tosca—forty-four miles. [Illustration: “_On these ruts we tore tires off the wheels at two miles an hour._” SEE PAGE 57.] [Illustration: “_We enjoyed the rare experience of ‘beating it.’_”