VERA CRUZ, April 30, 1914.
This heat — humid and moist — would sweat water out of a
chilled steel safe; so imagine what it does to me with all the
awful winter's accumulation of fat. I hate to say it, but I
like these Mexicans — much better than Cubans, or Central
Americans. They are human, kindly; it is only the politicians
and bandits like Villa
who give them a bad name. But, though they ought to hate us,
whenever I stop to ask my way they invite me to come in and
have "coffee" and say, "My house is yours, senor," which
certainly is kind after people have taken your town away from
you and given you another flag and knocked your head off if
you did not salute it. I now have a fine room. The Navy
moved out today and I got the room of the paymaster. It faces
the plaza and the cathedral. I burned a candle there today
for our soon meeting. The priests all had run away, so I had
to hunt up the candle, and pay the money into the box marked
for that purpose, but the Lord does not run away, and He will
see we soon meet.
