At the end of town they heard a phonograph, the twisty piping tones of ‘El Chocolo.’ In a doorway presently appeared a barefooted old woman with a broom in one hand and a pair of castanets in the other. Slim uncorked his Spanish. It sounded to Elbert as if he were asking for rooms with bath. The Señora’s mouth opened, but no sound came. She raised one foot and clucked the castanets, finally coördinating: ‘No sabe, Señor.’ Slim repeated. The other foot vanished; the castanets vibrated and a single word shot forth: ‘Baños,’ was the nature of it, the Señora pointing to a tin wash-tub under the eaves. At this point Elbert had to attend to Mamie, who wasn’t taking to the Señora and her castanets. Her feet were planted firmly against advance to the hitching-rack, and a long, tremulous wheeze poured out of her nostrils, signifying distrust, alarm. ‘I’ll love up the Señora,’ said Slim, confidently. He dismounted and bowed low. The Mexican woman couldn’t resist and turned into the doorway, bidding them follow. Mamie now relaxed, and Elbert was the last to enter a flowered patio, where the Señora brought pans of water for them to wash, and then began stirring in the ashes of the ancient fireplace. ‘I’m takin’ on hope,’ Cal breathed. ‘She’s fixin’ to boil something, if it’s only grool.’ ‘Frijoles,’ lightly called Slim. ‘Also, huevos, Señora, also tortillas tom bien.’ Her back was toward them, her face still bent over the fireplace, but her hand shot up, registering the orders on the castanets. At this instant something began to be wrong in the air. A far-off sound took the heart out of Elbert; hatefully familiar, it was, spoiling at once all the mysterious warnings of deserted Nacimiento--the chug-chug of an earth-eater, high-powered, and coming fast. A small, square, vined window in the patio faced the road. Elbert moved to it, Cal and Slim following. The three heads looked out, a hush fallen upon them. A cherry-colored sedan, dust of Mexico unable to cover its incredible modernity, halted before the Señora’s door, and three queer boyish figures hopped out. X ‘WATER IS FOR HORSES’ ‘THEY’RE white,’ whispered Slim. ‘They’re play-actors.’ Then from Cal: ‘What kind of little boys would you say them were, Elbert?’ ‘I wouldn’t. They’re girls in hikin’ clothes. Don’t you see their vanities?’ ‘Short hair and short pants, Elbert--where do you look for them points you speak of--oh, you mean them little satchels?’ Mexico had petered out; hope dead. ‘You go in first, Elbert. I never coped with nothin’ like them,’ Cal murmured. They followed the Señora into the front room. A chunky, black-haired girl, who had sat in the driver’s seat of the sedan, was letting it be known that she and her two friends had stopped for refreshments, on their way to San Pasquali. Her voice was resonant, and she tried to make volume do, being without Spanish.