hat's too good for a nut like
Brother Anthony, and we'll sit on a bench in the mission garden in the
shade of the largest bougainvillea in the world and tuck away the wine.
Between tucks, Father Dominic will inquire casually into the state of my
soul, and the information thus elicited will scandalize the old saint.
The only way I can square myself is to go into the chapel with them and
give thanks for my escape from the Bolsheviki.

"By that time, it will be a quarter of seven and dark, so Father Dominic
will crank up a prehistoric little automobile my father gave him in order
that he might spread himself over San Marcos County on Sundays and say
two masses. I have a notion that the task of keeping that old car in
running order has upset Brother Anthony's mental balance. He used to be
a blacksmith's helper in El Toro in his youth, and therefore is supposed
to be a mechanic in his old age."

"Then the old padre drives you home, eh?" the captain suggested.

"He does. Providentially, it is now the cool of the evening. The San
Gregorio is warm enough, for all practical purposes, even on a day in
April, and, knowing this, I am grateful to myself for timing my arrival
after the heat of the day. Father Dominic is grateful also. The old man
wears thin sandals, and on hot days he suffers continuous martyrdom from
the heat of that little motor. He is always begging Satan to fly away
with that hot-foot accelerator.

"Well, arrived home, I greet my father alone in the patio. Father
Dominic, meanwhile, sits outside in his flivver and permits the motor to
roar, just to let my father know he's there, although not for money
enough to restore his mission would he butt in on us at that moment.

"Well, my father will not be able to hear a word I say until Padre
Dominic shuts off his motor; so my father will yell at him and ask him
what the devil he's doing out there and to come in, and be quick about
it, or he'll throw his share of the dinner to the hogs. We always dine
at seven; so we'll be in time for dinner. But before we go in to dinner,
my dad will ring the bell in the compound, and the help will report.
Amid loud cries of wonder and delight, I shall be welcomed by a mess of
mixed breeds of assorted sexes, and old Pablo, the majordomo, will be
ordered to pass out some wine to celebrate my arrival. It's against the
law to give wine to an Indian, but then, as my father always remarks on
such occasions: 'To hell with the