"I saw you kneel in front of the church, I saw you make the sign of the cross; and I knew then that you did not come to make fun, as so many do."
"But why do you make fun and tell us your uncle is a priest when he is not one? Where is he now?"
"He is away at Palomas—at the sheep-shearing," said the boy. "I will tell it to you what I mean. My uncle takes care for the church—the Father comes not often here any more, and every Sunday my uncle rings the bell, or sometimes I do, and the people come, and he says the prayers aloud. And that is why the people who do not know about Catholics call him the priest. We let them do; we don't care. They don't know much—some of them."
"You speak English very well," said Walter.
"And why not?" answered the boy. "I have been to school six years at Deming, at the Mission. Maybe I go back in the fall, I don't know."
"What is your name?" inquired Mr. Page.
"I am called Francisco Perez," was the reply. "I will fetch water for you, or wood, or do anything that I can do, and I will not charge you much. Oh, I can do many things, for I have been to the Mission to school."
"Are there many boys here?" asked Walter.
"What kind of boys?" questioned Francisco. "White boys, or Indian?"
"Oh, any kind."