her jelly—though in her case the Colonel gallantly hunted her up to tell her so. Indeed the Colonel was always popping up and moving about to exchange a few words with his guests at the other tables. But also some things had been contributed by those sitting at the Colonel's own table.
"Mrs. Mainwaring," the Colonel called down the line to a little middle-aged Southern woman. "Nobody north of the Mason and Dixon can make beaten biscuits. That has been proved to-day. Without your kindness we should have missed one of our most delicate gastronomic treats."
As the meat was passed he remarked loudly, so that all could hear:
"You must remember to take plenty of the sauce. The barbecue is nothing without it. None can make the pepper flavour that goes into it unless one has lived in the old days. Is it not so, Doña Paredis?"
But the great moment was when, the serving over, Benito was summoned to receive his compliment, for in the final analysis his had been the responsibility for the gastronomies of the party; and his was now the glory. It was fairly a ceremony, with courtly little speeches on both sides. Benito bore himself with dignity, and acquitted himself loftily. One would have said a knight errant acknowledging due praise from his liege.
But all was not on as high a plane. There was a good deal of noise at the Colonel's tables as well as in the Grove at large. Corbell and his half dozen boon companions had preëmpted an end of the other table, where they were having close-corporation jokes among themselves and accumulating an extraordinary number of longnecked bottles. Kenneth Boyd was still with the group of pretty girls. The other two young men proved to be rather harmless local nonentities; but the damsels were at once pretty, stylish, and lively. Kenneth possessed certain advantages, such as a New York address, a jeweled fraternity pin, a preposterously long-visored cap with tangled college insignia embroidered on the front, a small knack with a guitar, a varied repertoire of perfectly killing college songs of a humorous trend, a half dozen jingles that turned most daringly on kissing, and a tiny gold ring with enamel forget-me-nots that looked as though it might have been given him by some girl. It must not be forgotten that he was young and goodlooking and not at all shy. Of course he could not deploy all these advantages at once, nor is the above claimed to be a complete catalogue; but enough has been suggested. If the reader has even been young he—or she—can see at once that the party was here going to be a success. Indeed, soon after the cool, sliced tomatoes had been served, the whole lot of them by common consent left the tables and seated themselves on the grass at some distance. Kenneth had borrowed a guitar from the musicians. He was surrounded by fluffy gay nymphs of different types, but all young and charming. Two negligible males had been supplied by Providence as witnesses. He teased and was teased. He sang his little songs dealing with naughty maidens of the bold black eye, or fishermen who sailed out of Billingsgate. He recited his little verses, notably one that ended to the effect that "the hint with all its sweetness her lover did discern, he flung his arms around her neck and glued his lips to hern." This elicited shrieks and writhings. The crass vulgarity and bad taste made a piquant contrast to the elegance of the relations between such cultured young people. The girls liked it, but it made them shudder—like the juice of the sweet lemon. Kenneth had a what-cares-he-for-conventions feeling, like the young devil he was. Dora Stanley and Myra Welch, and Isabelle Carson played up especially well. Dora was the vivid roguish type, Myra the languid, dark beautiful type, and Isabelle the plump sentimental type, which was of course why they were always together. Martin Stanley and Winchester Carson felt a vast secret contempt, but they could not think of a thing to do about it.
Boyd and the banker were still together, and had seated themselves near the middle of the long table. Over the Colonel's rye and bourbon they had fallen in with a number of delightful young-old men, and they were having rather a loud good time. Already Boyd had agreed to go riding with them and to play poker with them. They had a fund of dry humour, considerable native shrewdness, and a deliberate intention to have a good time. Four of them were staying at the Fremont for the winter; the other three owned places in the town where they had retired after stormy nor them business careers in the turbulent 'seventies. They were after Boyd's own heart; and he after theirs.
But one other group among all the Colonel's guests requires especial mention as having to do with the story. These were three: an elderly Spanish gentleman and his wife, and their daughter. They had driven up rather grandly in a victoria with a broad-hatted coachman at the ribbons, and had greeted the Colonel with a great deal of ceremony. Don Vincente Cazadero was rather stout with tufted side whiskers and a clean-shaven chin. He was of course swarthy, but possessed a transparent skin and haughty eyes. His dress differed in no way from that of the Americans except that in its small details it went to a refinement, a precious meticularity that found its ultimate expression in his small, tight, exquisite varnished boots. As he was a little below the average height, and a little above the average weight he carried himself with the utmost dignity. His wife was also stout. She was placid, unruffled, a little stupid, but evidently of noble race. The daughter was pretty and amiable but rather insipid, with soft eyes and long lashes. Both women were, as was the custom of their people, over-powdered. Their gowns were of wonderful heavy China silk, and their jewels of the first water. This family paid its devoirs to the Colonel in most punctilious style, greeted sundry acquaintances, and then drew aside. Don Vincente was the owner of Las Flores rancho, which bounded Del Monte on the north.
But by now the people began rising here and there from the tables. The girls ceased to flit to and fro, and seated themselves at a side table. This was the chance for which some of the young men had waited; and they hastened to supply the damsels with food and drink. Many of the diners straggled down from the knoll in the direction of the whitewashed corrals where the vaqueros were already beginning the sports. Some of the younger couples were trying to dance to the music of the guitars. Couples strayed away up the cañon.
Kenneth was one of the first at the corrals. He had never seen cowboy games, and proved most eager. The idea did not at all meet with the approval of his companions. The girls had no liking to expose their fresh toilettes to the dust, nor their fresh complexions to the burning sun and heat; the two young men pretended to be bored with such things. They preferred to remain in the shade with the guitar, so they trailed along back to the lawn under the Cathedral Oaks with the rest of the Colonel's "quality" guests. The Colonel himself went to the corrals. It was part of his hospitable duty to show there, he told Mrs. Judge Crosby with apparent regret; and then he scuttled away like a dear old boy afraid that already he might have missed something. He made his way through the dense packed crowd, shaking a hand here and there, exchanging remarks and greetings.
"What has been done, Manuelo?" he asked in Spanish, when he had gained the fairway outside the ropes where a little group on foot were gathered. The audience were crowded along the lines, they perched on the top rails of all the corrals, and some of the youngest and most active had climbed to the roofs. Inside the ropes, beside the officials mentioned, lounged a number of horsemen, vaqueros, and cowboys awaiting their turns at the games. The Spaniards were dressed in old-time costumes exhumed for the occasion from brass-studded heirloom, chests, with the high-crowned hat heavy with silver; the short jacket and sash; the wide-legged pantaloons bound at the knee and split down the calf; the soft leather boots; the heavy silver inlaid spurs. The American cowboys were not so picturesque in their own persons; but they vied with the others in perfection of equipment. All of the heavy stock saddles were rich with carving; many of them had silver corners, or even silver pommels or cantles. They carried braided rawhide riatas; their horses champed with relish the copper rollers of spade bits whose broad sides were solid engraved silver; their bridles were of cunningly braided and knotted rawhide or horsehair coloured and woven in patterns. The riders sat with graceful ease far to one side, elbow on knee, smoking brown paper cigarettes.
"Nothing yet has been done." Manuelo answered the Colonel's question reproachfully. "It could not be thought of that we should begin without your presence, señor."
"That is good! that is good!" cried the Colonel, delighted. "Well, here I am. Let us start!"
