And it is said that Abdul has developed a very special talent for heating up the temperature for his Christian customers.

Moreover, it is the general opinion that, whether or not the Kaiser and such people will get their deserts, Abdul Aziz has his.

XIII.  In Merry Mexico

I stood upon the platform of the little deserted railway station of the frontier and looked around at the wide prospect.  “So this,” I said to myself, “is Mexico!”

About me was the great plain rolling away to the Sierras in the background.  The railroad track traversed it in a thin line.  There were no trees—­only here and there a clump of cactus or chaparral, a tuft of dog-grass or a few patches of dogwood.  At intervals in the distance one could see a hacienda standing in majestic solitude in a cup of the hills.  In the blue sky floated little banderillos of white cloud, while a graceful hidalgo appeared poised on a crag on one leg with folded wings, or floated lazily in the sky on one wing with folded legs.

There was a drowsy buzzing of cicadas half asleep in the cactus cups, and, from some hidden depth of the hills far in the distance, the tinkling of a mule bell.

I had seen it all so often in moving pictures that I recognised the scene at once.

“So this is Mexico?” I repeated.

The station building beside me was little more than a wooden shack.  Its door was closed.  There was a sort of ticket wicket opening at the side, but it too was closed.

But as I spoke thus aloud, the wicket opened.  There appeared in it the head and shoulders of a little wizened man, swarthy and with bright eyes and pearly teeth.

He wore a black velvet suit with yellow facings, and a tall straw hat running to a point.  I seemed to have seen him a hundred times in comic opera.

“Can you tell me when the next train—?” I began.

The little man made a gesture of Spanish politeness.

“Welcome to Mexico!” he said.

“Could you tell me—?” I continued.

“Welcome to our sunny Mexico!” he repeated—­“our beautiful, glorious Mexico.  Her heart throbs at the sight of you.”

“Would you mind—?” I began again.

“Our beautiful Mexico, torn and distracted as she is, greets you.  In the name of the de facto government, thrice welcome. Su casa!” he added with a graceful gesture indicating the interior of his little shack.  “Come in and smoke cigarettes and sleep. Su casa! You are capable of Spanish, is it not?”

“No,” I said, “it is not.  But I wanted to know when the next train for the interior—­”

“Ah!” he rejoined more briskly.  “You address me as a servant of the de facto government. Momentino! One moment!”

He shut the wicket and was gone a long time.  I thought he had fallen asleep.

But he reappeared.  He had a bundle of what looked like railway time tables, very ancient and worn, in his hand.