We slept on the information but gained nothing. This day we had left our cabins early, to catch the first morning glimpse of the beautiful harbor of Havana. As we looked upon its blue shores, under the bluer sky, and felt the charm of early southern morn, it seemed impossible that such a most excellent place to come to could be without roads leading from one beauty spot to another. The original Cuban came along with a parting slam at our hopes. We were saved from developing a streak of yellow by being carried to a close view of the sunken “Maine.” While our little ship was at anchor, waiting for the tender to land its passengers, we surveyed that unprecedented monument resting in the middle of Havana harbor and our American blood created a stubborn desire to conquer Cuba, roads or no roads, if it took all the gasoline in the world and all the tires in Akron, Ohio. We were whisked from dreamland into the confusion of the custom-house. Meekly as possible, we suffered the high-handed tactics of the revenue officers. These new Cuban officials, who used to be flunkeys in the household of Spain, with their new freedom and their new uniforms, are arrogant. Some day, if he has not already done so, an American chap, with more valor than discretion, is going to jail for hitting one of them. It is a land of mañana, these being the headquarters. You can do anything to-morrow. All you can do to-day is to fume and go up to the Prado, where there is a good street eating store, and get acquainted with café con leche. Every addition to our list of Cuban acquaintances added further proof of the impassability of the Cuban interior. It is easy to be bold before the battle. We felt as bold as Moro Castle looked across the bay, when we drove around the beautiful shore drive toward Camp Columbia and for a wild, hilarious rush out on the wonderful San Cristobal road. We rushed back again to Havana because we were eager to tackle the impossible. Two native sugar planters, who had grown white haired in middle Cuba, were introduced to us at the Hotel Pasaje, as conclusive evidence that we were venturing on a dangerous and incredible journey. We listened to them while we changed our northern garb for clothes more suitable to the task ahead of us. At the local garage, we engaged an interpreter, commonly known as “Cuba.” He had had some experience as a chauffeur and was the only person we could find who seemed to think there might be a chance of getting beyond the eastern limits of the city. The proprietor of the garage cheerfully assured us that we would never reach Matanzas. So we left Havana. Driving on the boulevard which sweeps around the harbor, it was incredible that the ending should be a great desert of broken rock. We did not speculate on the future, but were satisfied to rush over the undulating macadam, rolling up an immense funnel of white dust which spread clear to the tops of the regal palms along the roadside.