“What do they care? Harlow is rich and respected in this country. The women are Mexican, though the girls have been well educated. It was a long time ago when he took the money, and as you see he lives like a perfect gentleman with his own wife and family. There are a good many citizens here who have better antecedents than Harlow and aren’t as respectable.” He looked suddenly at Brainard. The young man did not reply. He was thinking that even if the Englishman had been a thief, there was no reason why he should not like the daughter,—yes, and visit the Haçienda di Rosas, if he so desired! He supposed that Calloway had told him Harlow’s story for a purpose. “After you have lived here awhile,” the Southerner continued, “you don’t ask questions about newcomers, so long as they play fair and don’t try to borrow money of you. Live and let live—that’s a good motto, young man. You never can tell when you will need the same charity for yourself that you hand out to another fellow!” That philosophy seemed a bit specious, and Brainard felt an instinctive repugnance to the morals of his new acquaintances. He suspected that the Southerner might have his own story, which would explain why he was living a lonely old age so far from his native Alabama. Hollinger added nothing to the conversation. It was a somewhat delicate subject with him also. But all the young man’s chivalry rose in behalf of the little Mexican girl. This was the reason why young Americans never wrote and never came back! Well, he would show her that there was one who had the courage to forget that her father was an embezzler. When they reached the hotel Calloway said good night and went to his room. Brainard was about to follow him when Hollinger yawningly suggested having a drink of _pulque_. “Ever tried it? It’s not so bad; like the sort of yeast mother used to make out of potatoes,” and as Brainard demurred, he said more urgently, “Oh, come on! If you’re going to live on a Mexican haçienda, better get acquainted with the national drink—though that was pretty good claret the Englishman put up.” They went across the way to a café that was still open and ordered _pulque_. Brainard, after tasting the sirupy, yeasty stuff put his glass down with a grimace. Hollinger drained his and ordered another. “All you have to do with most things is to get used to ’em. The question is,” he added, looking meaningly at Brainard, “whether you want to get used to ’em! . . . Young man,” he remarked, as they turned back to the hotel, “I don’t want to butt into your business—I am not that kind. I don’t know whether you are traveling for your health, the same as I am, or for some other fellow’s health. But, in any case,—” here his voice became quietly emphatic, “all is, if you’ve got a job to do, do it! Whether it’s cracking a safe or running a city mission, my young friend, go at it and finish with it.”