Brown was standing outside the gate of Mission San José. The porter's face was wrinkled into lines of firmness. The caller had asked for Padre Osuna and had held up a sealed envelope on which was written the friar's name. The man in the lodge had asked for the communication, first in Spanish, then in the world-known sign language. Brown understood the signs, but was determined to place the letter in the addressee's hands himself. "No such trouble go get to see the minister in my country," Brown commented. "No sabe, señor," again from the porter. "You don't understand much, pore critter," said Brown, unwittingly using the meaning of the other's words. "Well from them to whom little is given little is to be expected; so, go to the deuce till I can find a way to beat something into your thick head." Brown's words were unintelligible, but his contemptuous manner spoke plainly enough to the Indian, who broke into a volley of indignant Spanish. The American slipped the bridle reins over his horse's head and led the animal across the street to the Mendoza hacienda house. Señor Mendoza had just returned from riding. A half score of mounted Indian riflemen were a short distance back of him. The Administrator nimbly sprang from his horse and awaited the newcomer. Several of the peons unslung their carbines from their shoulders, but replaced them at a motion from the señor's hand. "Can you talk American?" was Brown's characteristic question. Genuine amusement was in Mendoza's laugh. "I am not sure. I can understand you, however. I'm sure of that." Brown looked at the tall, gray man. "I reck'n you're the little girl's pop," he observed. "She favors you mightily in every way, 'cept in size and age. Met her again the other day in San José. We was tickled to death to see one another." "So you are Brown.. I am very glad to meet you. Allow me to thank you for your generous kindness to my daughter and the lady with her that night in the cave." Mendoza advanced, his hand extended in hearty greeting. The American took the proffered hand with a viselike grip. "You bet I'm Brown--Simon James Brown. Saint Louis, Missouri, is my post office address. I'm proud to know ye, sir." The señor recovered his hand from Brown after it had been given a series of pump-handle shakes. "What me and the Cap'n did for your folks the night of the freshet gave us as much pleasure as it did them," Brown continued in a mincing way, as if the occasion demanded some special effort from him. "I regret that I did not have opportunity that night to thank you and your captain." Brown wagged his head in a friendly way. "Curious feller is the Cap'n. Mind, he's a decent chap to work for and all that. I like him better all the time; but his ways are past finding out, you bet." Mendoza bowed courteously to the stranger and smiled obligingly. "What you see before you, Señor Brown, is yours. Will you not enter?" He waved his hands over grounds and house.