At about two o’clock on Thanksgiving Day the pilgrims from the San Gregorio sputtered up to the entrance of the Lower California Jockey Club at Tia Juana, parked, and approached the entrance.  They were hesitant, awed by the scenes around them.  Father Dominic’s rusty brown habit and his shovel hat constituted a novel sight in these worldly precincts, and the old Fedora hat worn by Brother Anthony was the subject of many a sly nudge and smile.  Pablo and Carolina, being typical of the country, passed unnoticed.

Father Dominic had approached the gateman and in his gentle old voice had inquired the price of admittance.  It was two dollars and fifty cents!  Scandalous!  He was about to beat the gatekeeper down; surely the management had special rates for prelates—­

A hand fell on his shoulder and Don Miguel Jose Maria Federico Noriaga Farrel was gazing down at him with beaming eyes.

“Perhaps, Father Dominic,” he suggested in Spanish and employing the old-fashioned courtly tone of the haciendado, “you will permit me the great honor of entertaining you.”  And he dropped a ten-dollar bill in the cash box and ushered the four San Gregorianos through the turn-stile.

“My son, my son,” murmured Father Dominic.  “What means this unaccustomed dress?  One would think you dwelt in the City of Mexico.  You are unshaven—­you resemble a loafer in cantinas.  That sombrero is, perhaps, fit for a bandit like Pancho Villa, but, my son, you are an American gentleman.  Your beloved grandfather and your equally beloved father never assumed the dress of our people—­”

“Hush!  I’m a wild and woolly Mexican sport for a day, padre.  Say nothing and bid the others be silent and make no comment.  Come with me to the grandstand, all of you, and look at the races.  Panchito will not appear until the fifth race.”

Father Dominic bent upon Brother Anthony a glance which had the effect of propelling the brother out of earshot, whereupon the old friar took his young friend by the arm and lifted his seamed, sweet old face toward him with all the insouciance of a child.

“Miguel,” he whispered, “I’m in the throes of temptation.  I told you of the thousand dollars which the Senora Parker, in a moment of that great-heartedness which distinguishes her (what a triumph, could I but baptize her in our faith!) forced Senor Parker to present to me.  I contemplate using it toward the needed repairs to the roof of our Mission.  These repairs will cost at least three thousand dollars, and the devil has whispered to me—­”

“Say no more about it, but bet the money,” said Miguel.  “Be a sport, Father Dominic, for the opportunity will never occur again.  Before the sun shall set this day, your one thousand will have grown to ten.  Even if Panchito should lose, I will guarantee you the return of your money.”

Father Dominic trembled.  “Ah, my son, I feel like a little old devil,” he quavered, but—­he protested no more.  When Don Mike settled him in a seat in the grand-stand, Father Dominic whispered wistfully, “God will not hold this worldliness against me, Miguel.  I feel I am here on His business, for is not Panchito running for a new roof for our beloved Mission?  I will pray for victory.”