The early morning air was crisp and invigorating. The transcontinental train had just come in, and whilst the early birds were out on the platform, half-drawn blinds revealed the drowsy countenances of other travellers who had no disposition for a peep at Mendoza, or who had seen it before and lacked ambition to see it again. There was the usual jostling on the platform of folk who had just arrived and those who were taking their departure, joyous greetings, and sad farewells. The stranger had to stand on one side and smile at the way Argentine men held one another by one arm half round the neck, and with the other hand gave continuous slaps in the small of the back. Yesterday morning's papers from Buenos Aires had arrived, and there was a scramble round the bookstall whilst the slow-moving newsboy undid the strings and we could buy our newspapers, and were able to read what the Prime Minister of England had been saying the day before yesterday. "Chico," with hat stuck on the back of his head, hastened up to our group with the intimation that we had better get on board if it was not our intention to be left behind. "Have you got plenty of food," was the inquiry, "for we are as hungry as hunters?" "Yes, plenty," was the answer. "And drink?" "And the drink." "You have not forgotten the cigars?" "No, the cigars are all right." Our car was attached to the express. It was a long, narrow car, with a table down the centre. We were met with the refreshing odour of ham and eggs being prepared in the adjoining kitchen. The long train panted toward the hills, leaving leafy Mendoza behind and winding away through aisles of great grey boulders by the side of the muddy Mendoza River. There was a dreary forlornness about the country as the train, with the river as its guide, seemed to be making for a huge black cutting in the mountains. We did not mind, for the Spanish cook and his assistant were busy serving us with ham and eggs, and coffee, and freshly baked rolls. Maybe it was the breakfast, or the exhilarating air of the hills, or the genial company, or the pleasure of the post-breakfast cigar; but we were the merriest party imaginable. The engineer who had turned vine grower became reminiscent of the days when he helped to build this line, and of how, when work was over in the evening, he frequently mounted his horse, rode twenty miles to attend a Spanish dance, mounted his horse again at four in the morning, and was back at work in the hills by sunrise. Of course, he was quite sure that those were romantic and adventurous days compared with the present.