“The Padre’s the boy. I’ll go over and interview him now.”
“You can’t. He’s to a christening at some Mexican’s up the creek. Won’t be home till late.”
“Well, morning’s as good a time as any, I reckon, for a wedding,” said Scott, philosophically. “We’ve got to stay over anyhow, to see the women off. Tomorrow’s your train day, ain’t it? Or have you changed your schedule?”
“No, we haven’t changed it,” replied Penhallow. “Only we don’t run on it much. We will to-morrow, though, because I’m sending a lot of hogs over.”
“That’s good. Say, what do they think up here of the revolution?”
“Which one?” with a chuckle.
“The new one. Looks like the real thing down yonder.”
“Well, of course, we were looking for trouble before the elections. We never expected the old man to keep his hands off the ballot box and everyone knows the man he put up—Bonillas—has got no show. It’ll be Obregon, I s’pose?”
“It’s hard to say. I was in Conejo a couple of days ago and they said Sinaloa had followed Sonora and a good many of the other states would fall in line in a few days. Obregon’s broken away from Mexico City—guess you heard that—and they’re talking of De la Huerta for provisional president.”
“Know him? De la Huerta?”