A spiggotie is any kind of a provincial Cuban, when mentioned by an outsider. He is one of that species of uncertain race which populates the Spanish-American countries and makes it difficult for a visitor to draw a color line between negro and Castillian blood. I have also met spiggoties who were a charming mixture of Spanish, negro, and Chinese. The doctor looked down from his pony at us in wonder. His servant on the other pony was alarmed. Presumably, he never had seen an automobile before. Having lived in the midst of three or four puny wars and one real one, he showed the common spiggotie attitude of being suspicious of everything that was not Cuban and regular. The doctor gave us the customary “que hay,” and we awakened the interpreter to say it back to him. A Cuban does not say much, but he uses a lot of words on the job and is willing to put a highly dramatic touch to the most trivial question or remark. Our interpreter was fully impressed with the honor of being a part of the first automobile expedition across the rough provinces of Cuba. The rattle of Spanish was like two kettle drums in action together. Evidently, the doctor asked all that could be asked and the interpreter told him more about us than we could have told him. We tried to break into the conversation, but the interpreter was disposed to consider our assistance as a hindrance. We pried one unconsoling fact out of him. The doctor thought we were more than right in supposing we might be up against it. He named about a hundred rivers and a thousand hills which were impassable. He explained that the trail we were following did not lead anywhere, that there was no trail which led anywhere and that there was no road which could be followed. He said that we would have to go back. Then he said that we could not go back. That we had come this far seemed only to impress him with the fact that we must have dropped out of a cloud or come in an airship. It was certainly impossible to make him believe we had driven an automobile from Havana. Thirty miles is a short distance for an automobile in some places. Between Philadelphia and New York it is a matter of thirty minutes. It had been a matter of five or six hours with us, there in Cuba. We were glad to have the doctor go on his way, for we had heard enough about deep rivers, steep hills, walls of rock, and crooked gullies. We wanted to think about something else until daylight. At least we had rather think about what had been than what was to come. It seemed strange that so much could have happened in the last twenty-four hours. There was an element of humor in our plight, but we were not in a humorous mood. There was great beauty in the wild, dark night for those who were used to the quiet, homespun nights of Wayne County, Michigan. We knew that we were missing the enchantment of the hour, but we were not in the mood to mind missing anything.