"Levantese! Levantese!" came JosÉ's voice to Francisco's ear, just as the latter was lassoing a llama he had been pursuing on the back of an ostrich.

Francisco rubbed his eyes and woke from his dream to a babel of voices, and the train was not in motion. Where could he be?

As he rubbed his sleepy eyes again his uncle took him gently by the shoulder.

"Wake yourself, NiÑo. We are in Rosario; come, follow me."

Francisco followed him through the long hall of the compartment car out into the big station where insistent porters and shouting cab-men made frantic grabs at them and their baggage, only to be beaten off by JosÉ, whose language as he scolded and berated them was not what is known as "polite Spanish."

Selecting a victoria from the long line of waiting ones, they entered, JosÉ sitting with the driver, and were soon before the lighted portals of a large hotel.

The building was two stories in height and perfectly square; the second story bed-rooms all opened on to a porch or corridor, which ran completely around and overlooked the central court on the first floor. The entrance was very imposing with marble staircases and marble pillars; and Francisco's sleepy eyes opened wide in astonishment. They were just in time for dinner; already the marble tables in the patio were filling with men and women sipping their afterdinner coffee in the cool open air.

As this was Francisco's first dinner in a hotel it might be interesting to know what he ate. Being an Argentine, he always ate several different kinds of meat, and began this meal with a platter of cold meats: tongue, pressed chicken and jellied veal. Second, a vermicelli soup with grated cheese; third, fried pejerey, the most popular fish of the country; fourth, partridge fried in oil; fifth, asparagus with melted butter; sixth, macaroni with tomato and garlic sauce; seventh, roast mutton; eighth, a salad of lettuce and tomatoes; ninth, a sweet jelly in wine sauce; tenth, fruits; and then they adjourned to the patio for coffee.

While his uncle smoked and talked with friends, whom he had chanced to meet, Francisco slipped away and JosÉ helped him undress for bed, as he was very tired.

He remembered no more after JosÉ turned off the electric light until he opened his eyes into the full glare of the sun, the next morning. It was nine o'clock and JosÉ was laying out clean linen for him. After a refreshing shower bath, he returned to his room to find his rolls and coffee on a table beside his bed.

"Why, JosÉ, I'm not a lady that I must have my cafÉ in bed!" exclaimed the lad. "Mother and the girls always do that, but I'm a man and I want to have mine in the dining-room with Uncle Juan."

JosÉ explained that in hotels one must always take one's morning coffee in one's rooms; and he talked on while Francisco ate and dressed.

"El Coronel will be busy all of the day and he has placed you in my hands. Rosario, I know like a book, and together we will see it."

"Oh! that will be great fun, JosÉ. Where shall we go first?"

"Would you like to see them load the vessels? This city is where much of the wheat of our country is brought to be loaded into the vessels for Europe. The river is so deep here that the largest ocean-going vessels can come up to the docks."

They walked through crowded, busy streets until they came to a high bluff, and from the edge of this they could look down on the very tops of the long rows of steamships below, all being loaded with wheat.

This was just the beginning of the busy season, for the harvest was scarcely under way. In January and February the whole city of Rosario would seem nothing but wheat, wheat, wheat.

Francisco saw all of this with deepest interest; he was beginning to comprehend the resources of his own country.

They sat watching the course of the wheat bags as they shot down the long chutes from the high bluffs to the vessels below, until Francisco's eyes grew tired and even when he closed them he could see long lines of bobbing bags, like yellow mice, chasing one another into the water.

So they walked along the bluff, counting the flags of the different nations displayed on the boats beneath them; English, French, Italian, Dutch, German and a few that Francisco had never seen before.

For a while they watched the lavaderas or washer-women pounding the clothes of the city on the rocks at the edge of the water; and spreading them on the higher rocks behind them to bleach and dry.

Steam laundries are uncommon in South America and all of the washing is done in this manner. The lavaderas carry the soiled linen from the houses to the river on their heads, balancing huge bundles as easily as though they were trifles, their arms folded across their breasts.

As they stood watching this cleansing process Francisco spied a raft-like boat piled high with small logs tied on securely.

"It looks out of place here, JosÉ, among all these enormous freight steamers. What does it carry?"

"Willow, SeÑorito, and see, there are others coming down the river. It goes to Buenos Aires to be made into charcoal, the principal fuel of that city. Great quantities of it are raised above here; it is quick of growth and needs only to be planted so," and JosÉ demonstrated by taking a short twig and sticking it into the earth.

"Behold! and in seven years, it is as you see it there on the rafts ready for market. They use the twigs for making Osier baskets. But hace calor[13] let us go to the cool shady patio of the hotel and there I will tell you a story of some charcoal burners until the Uncle comes."

But the Colonel reached the hotel before they did, for Francisco must stop to see this thing and that as they sauntered along. The mid-day heat meant little to him while so much of novelty challenged his attention. JosÉ was always ready to answer his questions, and he frequently drew the boy's notice to something that would escape any one but a keen observer, and this the Indian was.

The sun was almost in midheaven, and the daily siesta was beginning in some parts of the city. Workshops were being closed, and under every tree some cart driver had drawn up his horse and stretched himself on the grass under its shade; even the beggars were curled up on the church steps fast asleep.

"Why do some of those ragged beggars wear metal badges, JosÉ?"

"They are licensed beggars, SeÑorito. The city has authorized them to beg, and when you help them you may know you are helping no rogues."

Francisco drew his nose up into a prolonged sniff. "I believe I'm hungry, JosÉ. What smells so good?"

"Step here on to this side street and I'll show you."

The street was being torn up to be repaved, and the peon workingmen at this noon interval of rest were eating their almuerzo. Gathered in little groups, they sat around something that was cooking and emitting odours of stewing meat, potatoes and onions.

"But how are they cooking here in the street?"

"Go closer and you can see," replied JosÉ.

Francisco walked to the curb, and looking over their backs into the middle of one circle he saw—the stew cooking in a shovel.

"They buy these things at the market and use their street shovels for stewpans, as you see."

"Ugh! I hope they wash them first," laughed Francisco.

They were now passing the market, an enormous affair covering the best of a large block. But the scene was no longer animated for the chattering and bargaining were beginning to cease; and the merchants, themselves, were nodding over their wares.

Along the curbing were piles of merchandise; here, a stack of peaches, pears, apricots, figs, nectarines, grapes, and plums; there, an array of earthen ware, in curious shapes; here, a stock of readymade clothing, aprons, trousers, ponchos[14] and shoes. The vegetables were heaped high in piles; tomatoes, beans, lettuce, cardon, celery, potatoes, cucumbers, and onions in long ropes, their stems so plaited together with straw that they can be sold by the yard; or, in that country's measure, a metro.[15]

Many of the stalls offered cooked foods; roasted partridges and chickens; pÂtes of jellied meats; cleaned and cooked armadillo, whose meat tastes like tender roast pork. The Argentines are very fond of them and they consume thousands every month.

Around the curbing, at one end of the market, stood great carts, with wheels fully eight feet high. These, JosÉ told Francisco, were the market carts that brought the produce into the city. They look rude and cumbersome, but carry several tons and often as many as a dozen oxen are hitched to them.

These interested Francisco but JosÉ bid him hurry as no doubt his uncle would have breakfasted. Which, indeed, he was doing, for as they entered the hotel Francisco caught sight of him, seated in the long dining-room with several gentlemen; all of them, including the Colonel, in cool looking white linen suits. Francisco joined them and was introduced to the strangers.

They were wealthy estancieros but not Spaniards. One was an Englishman and the other a North American, owning ranches near Rosario, and they were negotiating with Colonel Lacevera for some pedigreed horses which he owned.

They talked partly in Spanish and partly in English; for like most educated Argentines, the Colonel spoke some English and understood more. Francisco had studied English at school just as he did French, and he was delighted to be able to understand some of their conversation.

Before they parted, the Englishman urged Colonel Lacevera to attend a large sale of cattle and horses which was to take place at his estancia the next day, Sunday. Patting Francisco on the head he added:

"Bring the NiÑo also, he may enjoy it."

So early the following morning JosÉ had their horses at the curb of the hotel, saddled and ready for the three league gallop.

Francisco had not ridden often, but his enthusiasm knew no bounds when he saw the Argentine pony that was to be his mount.

The Colonel looked at JosÉ meaningly, for he knew that this eagerness would not outlast the long gallop.

At first they rode briskly in the cool morning air. Francisco held on bravely, but the Colonel noticed the firm set of his lips, and that he talked less and less as they rode on.

They were riding through beautiful country. The turf was fresh and green in spots where the old coarse grass had been burned off and the tender young sprouts were coming up through the rich soil. They passed droves of several thousand sheep nibbling peacefully on this succulent new growth. There were shepherds, with here and there a hut made of poles covered with mud; the roof thatched with asparta grass.

Francisco was so tired and his bones began to ache so desperately that he ceased to show any interest in the things they passed. Colonel Lacevera and JosÉ exchanged knowing looks, but dared not permit Francisco to see them. When they came to one of these rude huts his uncle said:

"NiÑo, would you not like to see the inside of one of these prairie palaces?"

He admired the boy's pluck, but he feared to tax his physical endurance more.

Francisco willingly assented, and they rode up to the door around which a swarm of dirty, half naked children sat on the ground.

JosÉ called: "Ola!" and a copper-coloured woman appeared at the door, dressed only in one garment, a dun-coloured chemise.

She was an Indian, and when JosÉ spoke to her in her own tongue, asking for a drink, she pointed to the square kerosene tin filled with water, beside which hung a gourd.

She said her husband was out with the sheep; and she had no chairs to offer them, but they might alight and rest.

They stepped into the hut, the door of which was a horse's hide; the floor was the hard earth; a box stood in the middle and served as a table, while bundles of straw in the corners served as beds. Instead of chairs there were dried skulls of oxen; their wide, spreading horns serving as arms to these unique seats. Francisco was glad, however, to rest his weary body within their grewsome embrace and he sat thus for half an hour, while JosÉ watered the horses and the Colonel talked to the children.

Francisco himself proposed that they start on, but JosÉ was obliged to lift him into his saddle. One more league and they were in sight of the estancia, where the sale was to be held.

The house was of the usual Spanish style of architecture, and the many buildings grouped around it gave the place a resemblance to a village.

SeÑor Stanley met them and "gave" them his house, after the manner of all Spanish hosts, and they entered to wash and rest.

As the SeÑor Stanley was an Englishman, his house interested Francisco in spite of his weariness. It was fitted with every luxury of a high class English home; the baths being supplied with cool spring water which flowed through them constantly. There were handsomely furnished parlours, a well-filled library and a billiard room. The stables were commodious and sanitary; and the tennis courts and golf links, gardens and patios were numerous.

In the corrals they found several hundred men gathered and there was much confusion and noise.

It was Sunday and therefore a holiday spirit pervaded everything, for Sunday is not observed in Argentina as a day of quiet and reverence; it is the day for sports, games and excursions. This sale had been set for Sunday to insure a large attendance.

First, breakfast was served. Under a long arbour, formed by tall eucalyptus trees, the table, fully a hundred feet in length, had been set. At each place was a bunch of flowers and a bottle of native wine.

Despite his aching body, Francisco did full justice to the soup, barbecued meats and fowls, vegetables and fruits that were served. But after he had eaten he crept under the shade of one of the trees to rest.

He fell asleep and slept until his uncle wakened him at mÁte time.

"Hello, my boy! Slept through all of this noise? You were certainly exhausted, for such a clatter as there has been. One hundred thousand dollars and many pedigreed animals have changed hands, and it wasn't done quietly either. We will have our mÁte and then ride home in the cool of the evening. Come." And the Colonel helped the stiff jointed, weary boy to his feet.

[13] It makes hot, literally.