Back at the hotel, the landlord was so overcome at the advertisement that he almost lost his head, giving us a wonderful feast—downstairs for the band and upstairs for the dudes, priests and contessas, the last having been invited by Don Paco and come from far away for the occasion. I learned afterward that one of the reasons for all this excitement over my child was that Don Paco had told that both parents lived in California (their El Dorado), and somehow they had gotten the idea that I owned most of the state. One little touch that reconciled me for all the trouble the baby’s christening had caused me—the doctor, one of the first in Spain, who had brought him into the world presented me with a bill charging ten cents a visit and five cents whenever we called upon him. My exit from Spain was not so romantic as my entrance; in fact, it was in the nature of a flight. Walking into Alicante one day, I was grabbed by the American consul, who said: “Get your family and bring them here as quickly as you can; I cannot explain, as I must not speak English any more.” Cholera had broken out, in spite of every precaution to keep it from coming over the border from France, where there was an epidemic. If we did not get out immediately, it would mean three months in Elche, surrounded by troops, and the possibility of contracting the dread disease. I shall never forget the misery of that journey. As usual, I had very little money. It took us sixty hours to make the trip, and we landed at Concarneau at 3 A.M. in a blinding snowstorm. I think I spoke of the politeness of the Spanish farmer. Not so the dude. We had started third class, but had been driven out by the number of people to the second and finally the first class. Upon changing to the last, I saw the train was about to start and was all crowded except one compartment, marked “Reserved,” which I opened and entered. There were four well-dressed Spaniards lying down with their feet upon the seats, occupying the amount of space legally allowed for eight people. They looked up, saw the woman and baby, rolled over, and did not move. I explained politely and asked for a seat. Not a move. I then pushed one of them over and stood on him while I made room for my family, folded my arms, and waited for these people who kill, assassinate, and duel to come forward. There were many oaths and much talk about “wishing I had my sword,” etc., but not a shut fist. Just before we got to Irun, which is the last town before you cross the border into France, I got into conversation with a very well-bred Spaniard. He pointed to a little house at San Sebastian, way below on the seashore, and told me it was his and that he had just arrived home from South America and had seen his family for the first time in three years. He then spoke of his impatience at having been kept such a long time in quarantine in France. “But you are going away again?” I asked.