The gathering was an unusual and picturesque one—planter in white starched suit, laborers in rough, nondescript garb, women in loose calico dresses, children in dirty cotton slips, a naked baby on the floor, oblivious to surroundings while it played with a coquettish kitten, and the eldest daughter of the house eating thick pottage from a large spoon with her fingers. Let it not be considered, however, because the señorita of the far-away tobacco plantation uses her fingers to segregate the meat from the soup, that she is a spurious señorita. She has the ordinary and universal charm of the backwoods maiden everywhere. You will notice that literature always is prone to get human interest by ringing in a peasant lass, a milkmaid, or some other daughter of the untonsured meadows. I simply imitate literature by offering an olive-tinted señorita who shyly glances over a huge spoon, from which she picks out choice chunks of chicken with her more or less dainty fingers. It was a big family for such a small house, and they told us we might sleep in the tobacco store house. Señorita and señora departed to prepare our beds. Returning, they beamed hospitably, and said that they had made better provision for us, in another building close to hand. Waldon, with the lighted side lamp in one hand, gallantly accompanied the ladies as they escorted us to our bedchamber. He lost his gallantry and nearly dropped the lamp when his glance followed its feeble rays into the shed. “Carajo!—and then some in English! Fellows, it’s a pig pen!” He was right. One half the interior was fenced off by a few slabs. Back of the fence were a dozen grunting pigs. In front of the fence were piles of corn. Above the pigs was a platform on which was piled more corn. Two hammocks were swung on what Crebbin, who still had a laugh in him, naively called the mezzanine floor. On the ground floor were two more hammocks. We matched for the mezzanine beds and retired. Outside, it rained. Inside, the pigs grunted. We made merry. Sleeping with pigs was more nearly a joke than a hardship. We repeated the name of the locality to ourselves, “Casa Cinco.” Never will we forget Casa Cinco. Bent like half-opened jack knives, in canvas hammocks, we talked and laughed, and laughed and talked, and fell asleep to the lullaby of grunting swine. Camp Convenio to Casa Cinco—twenty-seven miles. [Illustration: “_At last we found the promised highway._” SEE PAGE 103.] [Illustration: “_The oldest cathedral in Cuba, weatherbeaten, but proudly rising over the low tiled houses of the town._” SEE PAGE 104.] [Illustration] CHAPTER IX _Deficit omne quod nascitur._ —Quintilian. [Illustration]