ments, a good tooth-paste is a ticket to heaven. At any rate, for these or other reasons, the drummer moved across the calle and came to a stand, with his own hand resting on the base of the little clay niche that sheltered the small china Virgin. He was so close to the man that he could smell the rank pomade on his knob of hair. He stood in silence until his nearness should have established that faint feeling of fellowship which permits a question to be asked between two watchers of the same scene. Presently he inquired in a casual tone, but not loud enough for the players to hear:
"Señor, can you tell me where is Eschino San Dolores y Hormigas?"
The strumming paused a moment. The man with the knot of hair gave Strawbridge a brief glance out of the corners of his eyes, then resumed his desultory picking at the strings.
"How should I know where is Eschino San Dolores y Hormigas?" he replied in the same nonchalant undertone.
"I thought perhaps you were a native of this town."
"Pues, you are a stranger?"
"Yes."
"Un Americano, I would say?"
"Yes."
The strumming proceeded smoothly.
"Señor, in your country, is it not the custom in searching for an address to inquire of the police?"
A little trickle of uneasiness went through the American's diaphragm.
"Certainly," he agreed, with a faint stiffness in his undertone, "but when there is no policeman in sight, one can inquire of any gentleman."
The man with the knob of hair muted his guitar, then lifted his hand and pointed.
"Yonder stands one, two corners down, señor."
"Gracias, señor." Strawbridge had a feeling as if a path
