Night does not settle in Cuba as it does in New England. It snaps, or, rather, day snaps into night. Twilight is not long enough to deserve the name. The task of getting to the opposite crown of the valley was too great for the few minutes of remaining daylight; so we camped. We were not prepared for camping, because we had anticipated spending our nights in villages or towns. We had learned a lot that afternoon and were still growing in wisdom. We made particular note of the point that when one is traveling through that country in a motor car his night stop is invariably just exactly where he happens to be when the sun sets. That was a wonderful night. It was dark when three of us, including the interpreter, struck into the region of awesome shadows and shivering noises, seeking habitation and food. We could see nothing. We simply wandered and yelled to attract attention. Every time we sent a loud “que hay” reverberating among the hills, we jumped at our own temerity. At last a hound bayed in answer and a feeble light flickered far off, up in the sky. We trudged up another hill toward it. A gaunt, scraggy Cuban met us. We watched his long machete with fascinated eyes, while the loquacious “Cuba” gave him a detailed account of ourselves, in Spanish. The Cuban welcomed us to his home, a hut of palm slabs roofed with thatch and floored with dirt. By the sinister rays of a small oil torch, mother and children ate a meal of pottage. The children cried and we gave them a few Spanish coins. Charity is cheap in a country of depreciated silver. We asked for water, and it was drawn from a pigskin. We asked for food, and were told that on the next hill-top dwelt a Great Señor—one Govin, owner of the big newspaper in Havana and who could speak English. We matched coins to see who would venture back alone to the somewhat distant camp with a bucket of water. Crebbin lost and trundled off into the darkness, seeking the light of the bonfire, which furnished our only clue to the whereabouts of headquarters. Under the talkative guidance of our still wonder-struck Cuban friend, we found the other house. The owner was brought out of bed to hear our reason for being there. He was much interested and much surprised. He was glad to give us food but he refused to be in a hurry. Also Señora, before she started to the kitchen to get us guinea hen and yams, insisted that the strange tale be repeated to her. The house of Govin was high above the surrounding country, but there was nothing to see in the darkness and nothing to hear except the barking of dogs and the echoing sounds from distant woods.