Simultaneously they discovered that they were hungry. The wind whipped in from the sea. An outpost tent or so marked the distant invisible city over the hills. Keith turned his horse's head toward them. They drove back across what are now the Presidio hills. But in a hollow they came upon another ranch house, like the first--low, white, red roofed, covered with vines. Keith insisted on driving to it. A number of saddled horses dozed before the door, a half-dozen dogs sprawled in the dust, fowls picked their way between the horses' legs or over the dogs' recumbent forms. At the sound of wheels several people came from the shadow of the porch into the open. They proved to be Spanish Californians dressed in the flat sombreros, the short velvet jackets, the slashed trousers, and soft leather _zapatos_. The men, handsome, lithe, indolent, pressed around the wheels of the buggy, showing their white teeth in pleasant smiles. "Can we get anything to eat here?" asked Keith. They all smiled again most amiably. The elder swept off his hat with a free gesture. "_A piedes ouestros, señora_," he said, "_pero no hablo Inglés. Habla usted Español?_" Keith understood the last three words. "No," he shook his head violently, "no _Español_. Hungry." He pointed to Nan, then to himself: "She, me, hungry." This noble effort brought no results, except that the Californians looked more politely distressed and solicitous than ever. "They don't understand us," murmured Nan; "don't you think we'd better drive on?" But Keith, who had now descended from the buggy, resorted to sign language. He rubbed his stomach pathetically and pointed down his open mouth; as an afterthought he rubbed the horse's belly; then, with apparent intention, he advanced toward Nan. A furious red inundated her face and neck, and she held her little parasol threateningly between them. Everybody burst into laughter. "_Si! si! si!_" they cried. Several started to unharness the horse. Others held out their hands. After a moment's hesitation Nan accepted their aid and descended. Keith's performance was evidently considered a great joke. On the low veranda were two women, one most enormously fat, the other young and lithe. They were dressed almost exactly alike, their blue--black hair parted smoothly over their foreheads but built up to a high structure behind, filmy _rebosas_ over high combs, and skirts with many flowered flounces. They both had soft, gentle eyes, and they were both so heavily powdered that their complexions were almost blue. All the men explained to them at once. The younger answered gayly; the older listened with entire placidity. But when the account was finished, she reached out to pat Nan's hand, and to smile reassuringly. Various foods and a flask of red wine were brought. There was no constraint, for Keith threw himself with delighted abandon into experiments with sign language. "_Esta simpatica_," the Californians told each other over and again.