I did as directed. My companion descended, and with a little bar that he took from beneath the car unloosed a few of the rails of the light track and laid them beside the road.
"It is our custom," he explained, as he climbed on board again. "We Mexicans, when we move to and fro, always tear up the track behind us. But what was I saying? Ah, yes—destruction, desolation, alas, our Mexico!"
He looked sadly up at the sky.
"You speak," I said, "like a patriot. May I ask your name?"
"My name is Raymon," he answered, with a bow, "Raymon Domenico y Miraflores de las Gracias."
"And may I call you simply Raymon?"
"I shall be delirious with pleasure if you will do so," he answered, "and dare I ask you, in return, your business in our beautiful country?"
The car, as we were speaking, had entered upon a long gentle down-grade across the plain, so that it ran without great effort on my part.
"Certainly," I said. "I'm going into the interior to see General Villa!"
At the shock of the name, Raymon nearly fell off the car.