“I have here,” I said, taking out a roll of bills, “fifty dollars—­”

“And that is all you have?”

“Yes.”

“Then let that be your fare!  Why should I ask more?  Were I an American, I might; but in our Mexico, no.  What you have we take; beyond that we ask nothing.  Let us forget it.  Good!  And, now, would you prefer to travel first, second, or third class?”

“First class please,” I said.

“Very good.  Let it be so.”  Here the little man took from his pocket a red label marked FIRST CLASS and tied it on the edge of the hand car.  “It is more comfortable,” he said.  “Now seat yourself, seize hold of these two handles in front of you.  Move them back and forward, thus.  Beyond that you need do nothing.  The working of the car, other than the mere shoving of the handles, shall be my task.  Consider yourself, in fact, senor, as my guest.”

We took our places.  I applied myself, as directed, to the handles and the little car moved forward across the plain.

“A glorious prospect,” I said, as I gazed at the broad panorama.

“Magnifico! Is it not?” said my companion.  “Alas, my poor Mexico!  She want nothing but water to make her the most fertile country of the globe!  Water and soil, those only, and she would excel all others.  Give her but water, soil, light, heat, capital and labour, and what could she not be!  And what do we see?  Distraction, revolution, destruction—­pardon me, will you please stop the car a moment?  I wish to tear up a little of the track behind us.”

I did as directed.  My companion descended, and with a little bar that he took from beneath the car unloosed a few of the rails of the light track and laid them beside the road.

“It is our custom,” he explained, as he climbed on board again.  “We Mexicans, when we move to and fro, always tear up the track behind us.  But what was I saying?  Ah, yes—­destruction, desolation, alas, our Mexico!”

He looked sadly up at the sky.

“You speak,” I said, “like a patriot.  May I ask your name?”

“My name is Raymon,” he answered, with a bow, “Raymon Domenico y Miraflores de las Gracias.”

“And may I call you simply Raymon?”

“I shall be delirious with pleasure if you will do so,” he answered, “and dare I ask you, in return, your business in our beautiful country?”

The car, as we were speaking, had entered upon a long gentle down-grade across the plain, so that it ran without great effort on my part.

“Certainly,” I said.  “I’m going into the interior to see General Villa!”

At the shock of the name, Raymon nearly fell off the car.

“Villa!  General Francesco Villa!  It is not possible!”

The little man was shivering with evident fear.

“See him!  See Villa!  Not possible.  Let me show you a picture of him instead?  But approach him—­it is not possible.  He shoots everybody at sight!”