"You like?" she inquired, holding the squirming puppy at arm's length.
"Si, si, muchas gracias!" cried Nan eagerly, and employing at once all her Spanish vocabulary. She deposited the puppy in her lap and reached out to shake hands. Keith flicked the horse with his whip. He, too, had recollected a word of Spanish, and he used it now.
"Adios!" he shouted.
But their hosts had a better phrase.
"Vaya Con Dios!" they cried in chorus.
Nan was in raptures over the whole episode, but especially over the puppy. The latter, with the instantaneous adaptability of extreme youth, had snuggled down into a compact ball, and was blinking one hazy dark blue eye upward at his new mistress.
"Weren't they nice people," cried Nan, "and wasn't it an adventure? And isn't he just the dearest, cutest little thing? You're not a little Spanish dog any more, you know. You're a—what is it they call us?—oh, yes! You're a gringo now. Why, that's a fine idea! Your name is Gringo!"
And Gringo he became henceforth.
"What kind of a dog is he?" she asked.
Keith grinned sardonically.