Antonio departed to bargain for corn for the mule. "A _tanito_—just a little corn," he whined. "Surely Don Jesus wouldn’t charge him anything.... Just so much corn as a mule could eat...!" At one of the houses I negotiated for dinner. The woman spread out both her hands. "We are all so poor now," she said. "A little water, some beans—_tortillas_.... It is all we eat in this house...." Milk? No. Eggs? No. Meat? No. Coffee? _Valgame Dios_, no! I ventured that with this money they might be purchased at one of the other houses. "_Quien sabe?_" replied she dreamily. At this moment arrived the husband and upbraided her for her lack of hospitality. "My house is at your orders," he said magnificently, and begged a cigarette. Then he squatted down while she brought forward the two family chairs and bade us seat ourselves. The room was of good proportions, with a dirt floor and a ceiling of heavy beams, the adobe showing through. Walls and ceiling were whitewashed, and, to the naked eye, spotlessly clean. In one corner was a big iron bed, and in the other a Singer sewing machine, as in every other house I saw in Mexico. There was also a spindle-legged table, upon which stood a picture-postcard of Our Lady of Guadelupe, with a candle burning before it. Above this, on the wall, hung an indecent illustration clipped from the pages of _Le Rire_, in a silver-gilt frame—evidently an object of the highest veneration. Arrived now various uncles, cousins, and _compadres_, wondering casually if we dragged any cigarros. At her husband’s command, the woman brought a live coal in her fingers. We smoked. It grew late. There developed a lively argument as to who would go and buy provisions for our dinner. Finally they compromised on the woman; and soon Antonio and I sat in the kitchen, while she crouched upon the altar-like adobe platform in the corner, cooking over the open fire. The smoke enveloped up, pouring out the door. Occasionally a pig or a few hens would wander in from the outside, or a sheep would make a dash for the _tortilla_ meal, until the angry voice of the master of the house reminded the woman that she was not doing five or six things at once. And she would rise wearily and belabor the animal with a flaming brand. All through our supper—jerked meat fiery with _chile_, fried eggs, _tortillas_, _frijoles_, and bitter black coffee,—the entire male population of the rancho bore us company, in the room and out. It seemed that some were especially prejudiced against the Church. "Priests without shame," cried one, "who come when we are so poor and take away a tenth of what we have!" "And us paying a quarter to the Government for this cursed war!" ... "Shut your mouth!" shrilled the woman. "It is for God! God must eat, the same as we...." Her husband smiled a superior smile. He had once been to Jimenez and was considered a man of the world. "God does not eat," he remarked with finality. "The _curas_ grow fat on us."