did. Next to the library they found a dining hall, long and broad, with

a table in the center which was so heavy none of the boys could budge it. Here the tableware was of solid silver and of the finest cut glass.

Passing from the dining hall, they entered a narrow corridor, with bed chambers on either side. Here the windows were covered with bamboo or venetian blinds. All of the beds stood in the center of the apartments, never against a wall. There were handsome dressing cabinets, also of massive wood in fancy designs. Between the bedrooms was a large bathroom, where the bath was nothing less than a small swimming pool, the top being on a level with the floor.

“Hurrah! a fellow can take a regular swim here!” cried Frank. “No wonder these folks look so clean. I’d want to bathe in that all the time.”

Beyond the bedrooms was the kitchen, in which the most of the food for the table was prepared. Attached to the kitchen was a small room of rough stone, in which were located half a dozen tiny charcoal stoves for cooking.

The servants attached to the place were as interesting as the house itself. A little negro boy went around with them. He had learned to say, “Yes, mistair,” and “No, mistair,” and he repeated these over and over again, each time bowing profoundly and rolling his eyes in a truly comical fashion. The boy’s name was Bulo, and our friends took to him from the start.

“Pretty big house,” said Mark, as they stopped near the kitchen, where a dozen girls were at work, some preparing dinner and some shining tableware, all under the directions of a tall Spanish housekeeper.

“Yes, mistair,” said Bulo, and bowed to the ground.

“How many servants?” questioned Darry.

“No, mistair,” replied the little colored youth, and bowed again.

“I said, how many servants?” repeated Darry.

“Yes, mistair, no mistair,” returned Bulo, and bowed half a dozen times, then as the boys laughed he laughed too, showing two rows of pure white ivories.

“You’re all right, Bulo,” said Mark, after the merriment was over. “Here’s a souvenir for you,” and he handed the colored boy a medio, which, as mentioned before, is worth five cents.

“Yes, mistair, yes, mistair,” said Bulo, with glistening eyes. And as he stuffed the coin in his shirt, he bowed half a dozen times again, and then, considering himself dismissed ran off, singing at the top of his voice.