"You aren't really Spanish?"
"Not really. Mostly. I'd fight a wild bull this minute for a single red-chilli pepper. I eat them raw."
"And you're going home to your ranch now?"
"Si. And I'll not take advantage of any stop-over privileges on the way, either. Remember the fellow in the song who kept on proclaiming that he had to go back—that he must go back—that he would go back—to that dear old Chicago town? Well, that poor exile had only just commenced to think that he ought to begin feeling the urge to go home. And when you consider that the unfortunate man hailed from Chicago, while I——" He blew a kiss out the window and hummed:
"I love you, California. You're the greatest state of all———"
"Oh dear! You native sons are all alike. Congenital advertisers, every one."
"Well, isn't it beautiful? Isn't it wonderful?" He was serious now.
"One-half of your state is worthless mountain country———"
"He-country—and beautiful!" he interrupted.
"The other half is desert."