it was the quintessence of all loathing, as he called her a name
unspeakable and vile.

THE MEXICAN

NOBODY knew his history--they of the Junta least of all. He was their
"little mystery," their "big patriot," and in his way he worked as
hard for the coming Mexican Revolution as did they. They were tardy in
recognizing this, for not one of the Junta liked him. The day he first
drifted into their crowded, busy rooms, they all suspected him of being
a spy--one of the bought tools of the Diaz secret service. Too many of
the comrades were in civil an military prisons scattered over the United
States, and others of them, in irons, were even then being taken across
the border to be lined up against adobe walls and shot.

At the first sight the boy did not impress them favorably. Boy he was,
not more than eighteen and not over large for his years. He announced
that he was Felipe Rivera, and that it was his wish to work for the
Revolution. That was all--not a wasted word, no further explanation. He
stood waiting. There was no smile on his lips, no geniality in his eyes.
Big dashing Paulino Vera felt an inward shudder. Here was something
forbidding, terrible, inscrutable. There was something venomous and
snakelike in the boy's black eyes. They burned like cold fire, as with
a vast, concentrated bitterness. He flashed them from the faces of
the conspirators to the typewriter which little Mrs. Sethby was
industriously operating. His eyes rested on hers but an instant--she
had chanced to look up--and she, too, sensed the nameless something that
made her pause. She was compelled to read back in order to regain the
swing of the letter she was writing.

Paulino Vera looked questioningly at Arrellano and Ramos, and
questioningly they looked back and to each other. The indecision of
doubt brooded in their eyes. This slender boy was the Unknown, vested
with all the menace of the Unknown. He was unrecognizable, something
quite beyond the ken of honest, ordinary revolutionists whose fiercest
hatred for Diaz and his tyranny after all was only that of honest and
ordinary patriots. Here was something else, they knew not what. But
Vera, always the most impulsive, the quickest to act, stepped into the
breach.

"Very well," he said coldly. "You say you want to work for the
Revolution. Take off your coat. Hang it over there. I will show you,
come--where are the buckets and cloths. The floor is dirty. You will
begin by scrubbing it,