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trying to dance. He was completely absorbed by his job, a little affected by the prevailing hysteria, and gathering an obscure and obstinate affection for the Niño, which any man is bound to feel for an object that he is struggling to save from destruction.
    At last the procession returned to the church. The faithful dispersed to their houses and to food. The other three bearers and a few of his favorite parishioners went into the sacristy with José-Maria. Pisco was momentarily left alone in the church. He sat down on the altar steps and rubbed his shoulder.
    â€œYou,” he said to the Niño, “should be very grateful to me.”
    The exquisite little face laughed at him. The sailor cap was awry, and the Niño looked as if he had been enjoying the fun.
    â€œYou ought to be ashamed of that suit,” said Pisco solemnly. “You are of the people. You have nothing to do with the present system. You understand us.”
    The Niño continued to smile. His face was nobly unconscious of the suit. He seemed to Pisco to be returning a diviner pity for his human one. Pisco felt very weary and very much alone.
    â€œYou,” he said, “have nothing to do with the Church. They put things into your mouth that you never thought. I’ve seen the same thing myself. The priests and politicians and philosophers make us all say what we don’t really think.”
    The tears came up into his eyes. On a sudden impulse he rolled over on to his knees before the image, and whispered:—
    â€œO Son of God, help us to make the earth as you would have it be.”

EL QUIXOTE DEL CINE
    RAMON AMEZAGA and I were sitting in the village inn at Ventas, and wondering if we could train ourselves to go to sleep at 9 pm. It was hard to come by amusement in that little Spanish town. On a Friday there was an organ recital in the church. On a Saturday there was often a boxing match. On a Tuesday, market day, the inn was worth a visit, for the farmers, the carriers, and the wine merchants gathered together, and there was much racy talk while the chorus of mules jangled their bells as they fed. On all the other days there was nothing to pass the evening but the popular amusement of walking up and down the station platform and watching the trains. Ramon was as bored as I. He was an engineer—a hearty Spaniard of the new school, with a horror of sentiment, politics, and provincialism. His countrymen found Ramon a little too frigid for their taste. To the Anglo-Saxon he was delightful.
    There was a cinema in Ventas, but it had never occurred to either of us that we might go. We had sat in silence for half an hour before I suggested it. Ramon protested, but gave way.
    The film was called A Strong Man’s Agony. The poster at the door translated it— La Angustia de un Fuerte. It sounded more endurable in Spanish. We had plenty of the Agony. There were also a sheriff, the inevitable cactus plant, and a blonde heroine in riding breeches that did not fit her. Ramon wanted to go out and get his money back. I persuaded him to see the funny side of it. The Spanish sense of humor is very like our own, but less sensitive. It can see the subtlest of jokes, yet, without prompting, it does not appreciate the humor of something that is not deliberately meant to be funny. But once set a Spaniard on the track of laughter and there is no holding him.
    Ramon began to laugh. A little man came down the gangway, switched a torch on him, and told him to shut up. He did. But the next close-up of the hero was too much for him. The man was tied to a tree by the neck. His eyes were dim with tears and his neck bulged. The tears were for the girl in the riding breeches. She had just been tied to another tree, and her virtue, by this time doubtful, was again threatened. Two ladies behind us made sympathetic exclamations. Ramon opened his mouth and gave tongue.
    â€œ Haga el favor de callarse, ” said the little man. “Do me the