"Why do you use that to kill ants?" he asked of Manuel. "Our servienta at home uses hot water when they get into the patio."
"Ah, yes, Señorito, but these country ants come in such armies it would take a geyser of boiling water to kill them. Now, we are here in the orchard; you can see how they destroy things."
Curious rivulets of tawny brown ran here and there as far as the eye could reach.
"Last spring these ants fairly cleaned our peach trees of their tender young leaves, and it was only by continuous labour that we exterminated them. Now, look at them! Thick as ever."
"But how can you kill millions of ants with so small a machine?"
"Well, I can't this afternoon. I brought the machine here to place it and get it ready; then early in the morning I will tap on the iron bars of your window and you must follow me."
It was scarcely more than dawn the next morning when Francisco heard the gentle tapping on the rejas at his window. He had forgotten his engagement with Manuel, and started up in bewilderment. The sight of the peon reminded him and he hurried into his garments and was soon with Manuel in the crisp morning air.
"A little more of the sun above the horizon and we would have been too late for to-day," said the swarthy Spaniard, as he busied himself lighting the machine.
"Ants are early risers, and it's only by getting up before they have made their morning toilets that we can manage to make war on them."
Francisco laughed at the idea of an ant bathing and dressing, and bent over on his knees beside Manuel who was scratching a match to light the dry rubbish in the cylindrical can, in one end of which was a small amount of sulphur. He screwed a lid on the other end, inserted the snout into an ant hole and with a pair of bellows he sent the volumes of sulphurous smoke into the labyrinthine passages of the ant houses.