“You see,” he continued, “they take the first car over to Conejo and then come back for us.”
“Do you mean to say that they’ll leave us here, perched on the side of this hill, while they run off with the engine?” demanded Polly, eyeing the trainmen indignantly. In fact, she was so busy being indignant with them that she omitted to notice that the young man had slipped into the seat opposite her. That fact, however, had not escaped the fat ladies in the rear, one of whom said to the other in shocked Spanish:
“It is Juan Pachuca!”
“So it is,” replied the other. “I had thought him in the South.”
“Who knows where he is? A wicked person, my dear, a very wicked person. My sister’s husband says he will get himself shot before he finishes.”
“Undoubtedly,” said the other, placidly. “So many young men are being shot these days. I thought that young woman was an actress—now I am sure of it.”
“Yes,” replied Juan Pachuca to Polly’s question. “But do not be alarmed. They will come back in a couple of hours.”
“A couple of hours!” The girl’s voice was horrified. “But I expected to be in Conejo in a couple of hours. I’m in a hurry.”
“One should never be in a hurry in Mexico, señorita, it does not—what is it you say—it does not pay.”
“Apparently.” Polly replied coolly, realizing suddenly that this good-looking boy was regarding the conversation as a thing established.