Don Miguel arranged it so that our little army of employees never had time to meditate mischief. He bought them all kinds of musical instruments, including a brass band on which they became proficient in a wonderfully short time. Every night there was a “baile” in the plaza at which the people danced till they fell from exhaustion. He offered cash prizes--mighty stiff ones--for the best dancers, male and female--the choice to be determined among themselves by a plebiscite or by select committee. Also, on Sundays, we had a bull fight. It wasn’t of the sanguinary description; the bulls weren’t killed, but were thriftily kept in cold storage to fight another day. It made a satisfactory sport for the people, and was also inexpensive. Added to this, we paid high wages in hard cash and kept in stock at our store an assortment of articles for personal decoration at prices that were highly profitable but not prohibitive. Thus our enterprise became a big success from every standpoint. At a time when nearly all the mines in the Sierra Madre were closed down--practically abandoned--we were swinging along under a full head of steam, without the slightest interruption, with the general good will of all with whom we came in contact. Besides, we were making money at a rate sufficient to turn one’s brain. I doubt if ever such a return was made on the trifling sum invested. There had been no development expense. The mine paid from the very day we began to operate it. While I was the “capitalist” and owned, by our agreement, two-thirds of the property, I allowed Don Miguel an absolute free hand in all matters of policy; wherein I showed a wisdom superior to my years. And I followed his advice in one matter so important that I must mention it for the general good of mankind. The women of the Mexican Sierra are remarkable for their physical charms. There were many real beauties resident in our camp--“simpaticas,” they used to call them--which doesn’t mean “sympathetics,” but “good lookers.” Now, I have always believed that a good looking woman was made to be looked at, to be admired; otherwise, wherefore was she created? Down in Mexico I could no more fail to notice a “simpatica” as she passed by, than I could close my eyes to the beauties of nature. Observing which, Don Miguel gave me a piece of advice which every reader of this chapter who may happen to visit Mexico should write down for future reference. “Leave our women alone,” he counseled me. “They are romantic, soft-hearted and will meet you half way, but no matter how innocent your intercourse, it will rouse jealousy, ill-will and serious danger. Nearly all the foreigners who get into trouble in Mexico can trace it to this source.” I realized the truth of this later when a young friend of mine called Eaton, who was a fine fellow but an ardent imitator of Lothario the Gay, was shot down in a lonely spot, jealousy being the evident motive.