ther
songs, more human, and more nasal, and it is believed that it was Our
Guest who was heard at midnight to be murmuring the chorus of a
favourite song, viz., "Hush, boys! No noise! Silence ebryting! Listen,
and you'll hear de little angels sing." At least it says "angels" in the
song, but the word Our Guest used sounded like "demons," but probably he
was dreaming of the "ping" of bullets and the roar of battle as the
snores resounded through the room, or, one might almost say, through the
house. Very early this morning there were cries for The Chaperon: he was
wanted to tell the time; he was wanted to bring water for ablutions; he
was wanted to tell us when breakfast would be ready; he was wanted to
give advice or remedies for mosquito bites, and, in general, for a short
space of time, he justified his existence. When at last the members of
the party had collected themselves from all sorts of odd corners,
coffee (with the addition of bacon and eggs, and several other things)
was served, and the interval, before the order "All aboard" was issued,
was chiefly occupied in observing and discussing the effects of our
first night's experience of bichos. Our Guest, after due deliberation,
laid down some useful rules for future guidance, the chief being, "Never
be without a Mosquitero": his face and head were literally enlarged on
this point, and he assured us that a mosquito's proboscis is an
impressive point. Apparently The Kid, too, would have liked to give her
views on mosquitoes and their ways, but her uninteresting remarks were
cut short by The Wild Man's order of "kennel up," and, given a bottle of
cana, she seemed quite happy. Our Guest seemed to have an impression,
also, that someone had blundered. He knew someone had slumbered (some
had not), and plaintively he begged that he might be allowed in future
to sleep at one estancia further ahead of the rest of the party.

Most of the nomads had had some slapping acquaintance with mosquitoes
during the night, and the showing of bites, swellings, lumps, etc., only
ended when The Jehu ordered the bugle to be sounded for an onward move.
We were well under way before half the lamentations had been entered in
the station complaint book.

Bidding adieu to Polvareda, where the green fields of alfalfa show the
march of progress, we pushed forward, but as we left we were unable to
decide whether it was a desire to escape observation (and, perhaps, the
too-effusive thanks of the