A little band of Mexican Indians, clad in the rainbow, and making big eyes at the wonders of this gringo metropolis, staged a gaudy prologue. “They say you can’t get into Mexico without a passport,” mused Toby. “We might as well find out and be done with it,” said I. A half mile led us to a row of government tents, followed by several buildings,--the first a low, wooden house, the second a neat, almost imposing two-story brick affair. Beyond was a smaller group, which we decided was the Mexican customs-house. A long man untangled himself from a couple of porch chairs, and sauntered out to the road, as we whizzed past the first cottage. He shouted something and held up his hand, but we failed to catch what he said. A moment later we reached the fine looking brick house. A swarm of dark-complexioned gentlemen speaking an excitable language rushed out and surrounded our car. Toby gave a sigh of satisfaction. “They said you couldn’t get in without a passport,” said she. We were in Mexico. We could gather so much from the dazed attitude of the U. S. official, who stood enveloped in our dust, staring after us, but still more from the flood of questions, increasingly insistent, which came from the bandit’s chorus surrounding us. They seemed to be asking for something,--possibly our passports. Looking ahead, Mexico didn’t seem worth our while. We saw only bare brown hills, sand and cactus. Perhaps, like Toby’s namesake, we had better leave before being kicked out. I displayed our camera. “Take a picture? Turn round? Go back?” said I in purest Mexican. The bandit’s chorus gathered in an interested if puzzled group about the camera, and looked as if they were waiting for me to do a trick proving that the hand is quicker than the eye. After a few repetitions, aided by liberal gestures, they got our meaning and laughed, showing dazzling sets of teeth. “Take _your_ pictures?” we added, at this sign of clemency. The Latin in them rejoiced at our tribute to their beauty. Two senoritas coming all the way from the Estados Unidos, passportless, braving the wrath of Carranza entirely because the gringoes were not handsome enough to snap! They straightened their uniforms, and curled their mustaches and flashed their teeth so brilliantly that Toby had to use the smallest diaphragm of her kodak. Before they could unpose themselves, we were back in the United States. They started after, as if to assess us for ransom, or something, but too late. The U. S. official met us. “Why didn’t you stop when I signaled?” “We didn’t see you. We thought the brick building was the United States customs,--it’s so much grander than yours.” “Well, you’re in luck,” he said. “They could a held you there for months, confiscated your baggage, and made things pretty unpleasant generally. They’re doing it all the time, under the name of official business. I tell you, I was scared when I saw you go through there.”