The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, November 16, 1902, Page 2

2 THE SUNDAY CALL “I'm only scting for the general office, Mr. Annixter,” returned Ruggles. ““When- ever the directors are ready to take that matter up I'll be only too glad to put it hrough for you.” e You dian't know. Look here, ouw're not_talking to old Broderson. ake up, Ruggles. What's all this talk in Genslinger’s rag about the grading of the value of our lands this winter and an advance in the price?” s Ruggles spread out his hands with & ecatory gesture. don’t own the ‘Mercury,”” he said. your company does. oes anything 1 don't As if you and Genslinger and §. Behrman didn’t run the whole show down here. Come on, let's have it Ruggles. What does S. Behrman pay Genslinger for inserting that three-inch ed. of the P. and W. In his peper? Ten thousand a year, hey?” “Ob, why not a hundred thousand and be dome with it?’ returned the other, villing to take it as a joke. ead of replying Annixter drew his ook from his inside pocket. know “Oh, rot! In chec “Let me take that fountain pen of yours,” he said. Holding the book on his knee he wrote out a check, tore it > asked Rugg! 4 ourths payment for the sections of railroad land included in my ranch. based on a valuation of two doilars and & half per acre. Y ca® have the balance in sixty-day notes. Ruggles shook his head, drawing hastily back from the check as though it carried contamination. “l can’t touch it,” he declared. “T no authority to sell to you yet.” “I don't understand you people,” ex- claimed Annixter. I cffered to buy of you the same way four years ago and you sang the same song. Why, it isn't business. You lose the interest on your money. Seven per cent of that capital for four years—you can figure it out. It's big monej “Well, then, T don’t see Why you're so keen on parting with it. You can get seven per cent the same as us.” “] want to own my own land,” ve returned Annixter. “I want to feel that every lump of dirt inside my fence is my personal property. Why, the very house I live in now—the ranchhouse—stands on railroad ground.” “But, you've an option—"" “T tell you I don’t want your cursed op- tion. 1 want ownership; and it's the same with Magnus Derrick and old Broderson and Osterman and all the ranchers of the county. We want to own our land, want to feel we can do as we blame please with it. Suppose I should want to sell Quien Sabe. I can't sell it as a whole till T've bought of-you. I can't give anybody clear title. The land has doubled in lue ien times over again since I came on it and improved it. It's worth eas- twenty an acre now. But I can't take edvantage of that rise in value so long gs you won’t sell, so long as 1 don’t‘own it. “You're blocking me. “But, according to you, the raflroad can't take advantage of the rise in any case. According to you, you can sell for twenty dollars, but we can only get two end a hal “Who made it worth twenty?” cried An- nixter. “I've improved it up to that fig- ure nger seems to have that idea too. Do you people think you that land. untaxed, for specula- until it goes up to thirty sen sell out to some one e'se it over our heads? You and Gens- weren't in office when those con- s were drawn. You ask your boss: ask 8. Behrman, he knows. The gen- office s pledged to sell to us in pref- erence to eny one else for two and & half Well,” observed Ruggles. decidedly, g the end of his penci' on his desk i forward to emphasize his re not sel’inrg now. That’s sald signed. Mr. Annixter.” yE R \'.‘s not? Come, spit it out. What's the bunko game this time?” . “Because we're not ready. Here's your check.” o “You won't take it “N make it a cash payment. money —the whole of it—pavable to Cyrus éo yr o e Ruggles, for the P. and 8. W. “Third and last time.” on he devil! ) to the dev 3 Bon't Mke your tone, Mr. Annixter, returned Ruggles, flushing angrily. “1 don’t give u curse whether you ke ¢ or mot,” returned Annister, rising and N usting the check into his pock- et; “but vou _ mind, Mr. : i Behrman and rnja up some of these days Soing just one little bit too far, and there’ll be an election of Railroad Com- of, by and for the people, a twist of you, my bunko triend—vou and your backers and swindiers a d thimble-rig- ou, lock, steck and p to_v@u and be . Cyrus Blackleg Rug- Annixter stormed out of the room, ing the door behind him, ard Rug- gles nbling with anger, turned to his Gesk and to the blotting pad written all over with the words Lands, Twenty dol- a f. Option. and. over again. with great swelling a flourishes, Ratiroad, Railroad, into the outside de of the wire par- gure of a man at tion with one of the counter in conver: e re was something fami eve about the man's heavy s great shoulders and mas- he spoke to the clerk ; mbling voice Annixter rompt 3 P P here was a meeting. Annixter liked Dyke, as did every one else in and about aused now to shake harged engincer and ttle daughter, Sidney, Dyke was devotedly whom he kne hed. £ test little tad in Tulare Ccunty,” esserted Dyke. “She’s getting prettiier every day, Mr. Annixter. There's a iit- tle tad that was just born to be a lady. Can recite the whole of ‘Snow Bound' without every stopping. You don’t .be- leve that, maybe, hey? Well, it's true. Bhe’ll be just oid enough to enter the sem- inary up &t Marysville next winter, and if my bop business pays 2 per cent om the investment there’s where she’s going to_go. "Eflx's it coming on?" inquired An- nixter. “The hop ranch? Prime. I've about got the land In shape and I've engaged 2 foreman who knows all about hops. T've been in luck. Everybody will go into the business next vear when they see hops ‘go to a dollar, and they'l! over- stock the market and bust the price. But I'm going to get the cream of 1t now. I say 2 per cent. Why, Lord love you, it_will pay a good deal more than that It's got to. It's cost more than 1 figured to start the thing, o, perhaps, 1 may have to borrow somewheres; but then o such sure game as this—and 1 do want to make something out of that e?” inquired Annixter, move off. minute,” answered Dyke. nd I'll walk down the Just “Wait for me street with you, ter grumbled that he was in & but waited, nevertheless, while e n approached the clerk. “I shall want some empty cars of you eople this fall,” he explained. “I'm a jser now and I just want to make what your rates on hops are. I've told, but I want to make sure. e was 2 long delay while the clerk ted the tariff schedules arnd An fretted impatiently. Dyke, grow- ing uneasy, leaned heavily on his elbows, ning the clerk anxiously. If the tariff wase exorbitant he saw his plans brought to naught, his money jeopardized, the little tad, Sidney, deprived of her educa- tion He began to blame himself that not long before determined what the raflroad would charge ais hops. He told himself he t much of & business man; that hLe aged carelessly. Two cents,” suddenly announced the clerk with a certain surly indifference. “Two cents a pound?” “Yes, two cents a pound—that's in car. load lots, of course. I won't give you that rate on smaller consignments." es, carload lots, of course * two cents. Well, all right.” He turned away with a great sigh of relief “He sure did have me scared for a minut he said to Annixter as the two went down the street, “fiddling and fus- ing so long. Two cents is all right, though. Secms fair to me. That fiddling of his was all put on. I know ‘em, these 1aflroad heelers. He knew 1 was a dis- charged employe first off, and he played the game just to make me seem small because 1 had to ask favors of him. I don’t suppose the general office tips its slaves off to act like swin, but there’s the feeling through the whole herd of them. ‘Ye got to come to us. We let ye live only so long as we choose, and what are ye going to do about it? If ye don't like it, git out.” Annixter and the engineer descended to the street and had a drink at the Yo- semite bar, and Annixter went into the general store while Dyke bought a little pair of red slippers for Sidney. Before the sal sman had wrapped them up, Dyke slipped a dime into the toe of each with & wink at Annixter. i “Let the little tad find 'em there,” he said behind his hand in a hoarse whisper. “That’'ll be one on Sid.” “Where to now?’ demanded Annixter as they regained the street. “I'm going down to the postoffice and then pull out for the ranch. Going my way Dyke hesitated in some confusion, tug- ging at the ends of his fine blonde beard. “No, mo. I guess I'll leave you here I've got—got other things to do up the street. So long.” 2 The two separated, and Annixter hur- ried through the crowd to the postoffice, but the mail that had come in on that morning’s train was unusually heavy. It was nearly half an hour before it was distributed. Naturally enough, Annixter placed all the blame of the delay upon the railroad and delivered himself of some pointed remarks in the midst of the Wwaiting crowd. He was irritated to the last degree when he finally emerged upon the sidewalk wgain, cramming his mail into his pockets. One cause of his bad corner of Osterman’s stock range, at the head of a canyon there. But he had re- turned by way of Bonneville to get a crate that had come for him from San Diego. He had been notified of its arrival the day before. Annixter pulled up and passed the time of day with the priest. “I don’t often get up' your way,” he said, slowing down his horse to accom- modate Sarria’s deliberate plodding. Sar- ria wiped the perspiration from his smooth, shiny face. “You? Well, with you it is different,” he answereg. ‘“‘But there are a great many Cathdlics in the county—some on your ranch. And so few come to the mis- sion. At high mass on Sundays there are a few—Mexicans and Spaniards fro Guadalajara mostly; but weekdays; for matins, vespers and the like, I often say the offices to an empty church—‘the voice of one crying in ' You Americans are not good churchm days you sleep—you read the new: “Well, there's Vanamee,” observed An- nixter. “I suppose he's there early and late.” Sarria made a sharp movement of in- terest. “Ah, Vanamee—a strange lad; a won- derful ‘character for all that. If there were only more like him. I am troubled about him. You know I am a very owl at night. I come and go about the mission at all hours. Within the week, three times I have seen Vanamee in “Yes, yes, that's it; a fancy breed.” At the ranchhouse, where they arrived toward § o'clock, Annixter Insisted that the priest should stop long enough for a glass of |herr{‘ Sarrig left the basket and his small black valise at the foot of the porch steps, and sat down in a rocker on the porch itself, fanning himself with his broad-brimmed hat, and shaking the dust from his cassock. Annixter brought out the decanter of sherry and glasses, and the two drank to each other’s health. But as the priest set down his glas wiping his lips with a murmur of satis- faction, the decrepit Irish setter that had attached himeelf to Annixter’s house came out from underneath the porch and nosed vigorously about the wicker basket. He upset it. "The little peg holding down the cover slipped, the basket fell sideways, opening as it fell, and a cock. his head inclosed in a little chamois bag such as are used for gold watches, struggled blindly out into' the open air. A second, similarly hooded, followed. The pair, stu- pefied in their headgear, stood rigid and bewildered in their tracks, clucking un- easily. Thelr tails were closely sheared. Their legs, thickly muscled and extraor- dinarily long, were furnished with enor- mous cruel looking spurs. The breed was unmistakable. Annixter looked once at the pair, then shouted with laughter: *“ ‘Poultry’—‘a_chicken or two'—'fancy breed'—ho! yes, I should think so. Game cocks! Fighting cocks! Oh, you old rat! You'll be a dry nurse to a burro and kee; a hospital for infirm puppies, but you will wrong way, I don’t know much about women people. I want you to forget about that—this morning, and not think I am a galoot and a mucker. WIill you do it? Will you be friends with me?” Hilma set the plate and coffee cup hx Annixter’s place before answering, an Annixter repeated his question. Then she drew a deep, quick breath, the flush in her cheeks returning. 2 “T think it was—it was wrong of you, she murmured. ‘‘Oh! you don’t know how it hurt me. I cried—oh, for an hour. “Well, that's just it,” returned Annix- ter vaguely, moving his head uneasily. “I didn’t know what kind of a girl you were —I_mean, I made a mistake. I thought it didn’t make much difference. I thought all females were about alike.” “I hope you know now,’ murmured Hil- ma ruefuily. “I've paid enough to have you find out. I cried—you don't know. Why, it hurt me worse than anythin} p - can remember. I hope You know now.’ “Well, I do know now.” he exclaimed. “It wasn't so much that you tried to do —what you did,” answered Hilma, the single deep swell from her waist to her throat rising and falling in her emotion. “It was that you thought that you could —that’ anybody could that wanted to— that 1 held myself so cheap. Oh!” she cried, with a sudden sobbing catch in her throat, “I never can forget it, an don't know what it means to a girl. “Well, that's just what I do wan he repeated. “I want you to forget it and have us be good friends.” l"-l‘lng'. hypnotic condition that comes just before sleep, a series of pictures of the day’s doings passed before his imagi- nation like the roll of a kinetoscope. First, it was Hilma Tree, as he had seen her in the dairy-house—charming, deli- clous, radiant of youth, her thick, white neck with its pale amber shadows under the chin; her wide, open eyes rimmed with fine, black lashes; the deep swell of her breast and hips, the delicate, lustrous floss on her cheek, impalipable as the pol- len of a flower. He saw her standing there in the scintillating light of the morning, her smooth arms wet with milk, redolent and fragrant ¢f milk, her whole, desirable figure moving in the golden glory of the sun, ‘steeped in a lambent flame, saturated with it, glowing with it, joyous as the dawn itself. Then it was Los Muertos and Hooven, the sordid little Dutchman, grimed with the soil he worked in, yet vividly remem- bering a period of military glory, excit- ing himseif with recollections of Grave- lotte and the Kaiser, but contented now in the country. of his adoption,, defining the fatherland as the place where wife and children lived. Then came the ranch- house of Los Muertos, under the grove of cypress and eucalyptus, with jts smooth, graveled driveway and well groomod lawns: Mrs. Derrick with her wide opened eyes, that so easily took on a look of uneasiness, of innocence, of anxious inquiry, her face still pretty. her brown hair that still retained so much of its brightness spread over her chair temper was the fact that in the bundle of Quien Sabe letters w.s one to Hilma : in a man's handwriting “Huh!' Annixier had growled to him- self, “that pip Delaney. Seems now_that I'm’to act as a go-between for 'em. Well, maybe that female girl gets this letter, end then, aga maybe she don't."” s attention was diverted ite the postoffice, upon the corner of the street, stood quite the best business bullding of which Bonneville could It was built of Colusa gran- ite, olid, ornate, imposing. Upon the heavy p ate of the wirdow of its main fioor. in gold letters. one re .d the words: “Loan and Savings Bank of Tulare County.” It was of this bank that S. Behrman was presiuent. At the street entrance of the building was a curved fixed upon the this sign bore the and under it in angle of the masonry; name, “S. Behrman,” smaller letters were the words, “‘Reai Estate, Mortgages.” As Annixter's glance fell upon _this bullding he was surprised to see Dyke standing upon the ecurb in front of it. ap- parently reading.from a newspaper that he heid in his hand. But Annixter promptly discovered that he was not reading at all From time to time the former engineer shot a swift glance out of the corner of his eye up and down the street. Annixter jumped at a conclusion. An idea suddenly oc- curred to him. Dyke was watching to see if he was observed—was waliting an op- portunity when no one who knew him ghould be in sight. Annixter stepped back a little, getting a telegraph pole some- what between him and the other. Very interested, he watched what was going on. Pretty soon Dyke thrust the paper into his pocket and sauntered slowly to the windows of a stationery store, next the street entrance of S. Behrman's offices. For a few seconds he stood there, his back turned. seemingly absorbed in the display, but eying the street narrowly nevertneless; then he turned around, gave a last look about and stepped swiftly into the doorway by the great brass sign. He disappeared. Annixter came from hehind the telegraph pole with a flush of actual hame upon his face. There had been something so slinking, so mean, in the movements and manner of this great, burly honest fellow of an engineer that he could not help but feel ashamed for him. Circumstances were such that a simple business transaction was to Dyke almost culpable, a degradation, a thing to be concealed. “Borrowing money of 8. Behrman,” commented Annixter; “mortgaging ° your little homestead to the rallroad, putting your neck in the halter. Poor fool! The pity of it! Good Lord, your hops must pay you big, now, old man.” Annixter lunched at the Yosemite Ho- tel, and then later on, toward the middle of the afternoon, rode out of the town at @ canter by the way of the upper road that paralleled the railroad tracks and that ran diametrically straight between Bonneville and Guadalajara. About half way between the two places he overtook Father Sarria trudging back to San Juan, his long cassock powdered with dust. He had a wicker crate in one hand, and in the other, in a small square valise, the materials'for the holy sacrament. Since early morning the priest had covered nearly fifteen miles on foot, in order to administer extreme unction to a moribund gond-(or-nolhln‘. a greaser, half Indian, alf Portuguese, who lived in a remote the miss'on, He had come He did not see Once, when I had the little garden by and at the dead of night. without asking for me. me. It was strange. must _have been there all th night. He is acting queerly. He is pale his cheeks are more sunken thah ever. There is something wrong with him. | can’t make it out. It is a mystery. Sup- poge you ask him?" “Not I. I've enough to bother myse!f about. Vanamee is crazy in the head Some morning he will turn up missing again and drop out of sight for an: ther three years. Best let him alone, Sarria. He's a crank. How fs that greaser of yours yp on Osterman’s stock range?”’ “‘Ah, the poor fellow—the poor fellow," returried the other, the tears coming to his cyes. *“He died this morning—as you might say, in my arms, painfully, but in the faith, in the faith. A good fe'low.” lazy, cattle-stealing, knife-in-his- boot Dago.” “You misjudge him. A really good fel- low on better acguaintance.” Annixter grunted scornfully. Sarria’s kindness and good will toward the most outrageous reprobates of the ranches was proverbial. He pract'cally suppor:ed some half dozen families that lived in forgotten cabins, lost and all but inaccessible, in the far cornefs of stock range and canyon. This_particular greaser was the laziest the dirtiest, the most worthless of the lot. But in Sarria’s mind the lout was an ob- ject of affection, sincere, unquestioning, Thrice a week the priest, with a basket, of provisions—cold ham, a bottle of wine, olives, loaves of bread, even a chicken or two—tolled over the interminable stretch of country between the ‘mission and his cabin. Of late, during the rascal's sick- ness. these visits had been almost daily. Hardly once did the priest leave the bed- side that he did not slip a half dol'ar into the palm of his wife or oldest daughter, And this was but one case out of many. His kindliness toward animals was the same. A horde of mange corroded curs lived off his bounty, wolfish, ungrateful, often marking him with their teeth, yet never knowing the meaning of a harsh word. A burro, overfed, lazy, incorrigible, browsed on the hill back of the mission, obstinately refusing to be harnessed to Sarria’s little cart, squealing and biting ‘whenever. the attempt was made; and the priest suffered him, submitting to his hu- mor, inventing excuses for him, alleging that the burro was foundered, or was In need of shoes, or was feeble from ex- treme age. The two peacocks, magnifi- cent, proud, cold-hearted, resénting ail familiarity, he served with the timorous, apologetic affection of a queen’s lady-in- ‘waiting, resigned to their disdain, happy if only they condescended to enjoy tge grain he spread for them. ‘At the long trestle Annixter and the priest left the road and took the trafl that crossed Broderson Creek by the clumps of gray-green willows and led across Quien Sabe to the ranchhouse, and to the mission farther on. They were obliged to proceed in single file here, and Annixter, wha had allowed the priest to 20 in front, promptly took notice of the wicker basket he carried. Upon his in- quiry, Sarria became confused. “It was a basket that he had had sent down to him from the cfty.” ‘“Well, T know—but what’s in 1t7"” “Why—I'm sure—ah, poultry—a chicken T two. “Fancy breed?" o fight game cocks. Oh, Lord! Why, Sar- ria, this is as good a grind as I ever heard. There's the Spanish cropping out, after all.” Speechiess with chagrin, the priest bun- dled the cocks into the basket and cateh- ing up the valise. took himself abruptly away, almest running till he had put him- self ‘cut of hearing of Annixter's raillery. s Annixter turned about to re-enter he found himself almost face e with Hilma Tree. She was just going in at the doorway. and a great flame of the surset, shootirg in under the eaves of the porch, enveloped her from her head, with its thick, moist hair that hung low over her neck.'to her slim feet, set- ting a golden flash in the little steel buckles of her low shors. She had come to set the table for Annixter's supper. Taken all aback by the suddenness of the encounter. Annixter ejaculated .an abrupt and senseless “‘Execuse me.” ‘But Hilma, without raising her eyes. passed on un- moved into the dining-room, Jeaving An- nixter trying to find his breath and fumb- ling with the brim of his hat. that he was_surprised to find he had taken from his head. Resolutely, and taking a quick advantage of his opportunity, he followed her into the dining-room. ““I see that dog has turned up, nounced with brisk cheerfulnes Irish setter I was asking about. ilma, a swift, pink flush deepening the delicate rose «f her eheeks. did not reply, except by nodding her head. She flung the tablecloth out from under her arms across the table, spreading It smooth with quick little caresses of her hands. There was a moment's silence. Then An- nixter said: “‘Here's a letter for you.” He laid it down on the table near her. and Hilma picked it up. ‘‘And see h-re. Miss Hilma " Annixter continued, ‘“‘about that—this morning—I suppose you think T am a first class n:ucker. If it will do any good to apologize, why, I will. I want to be friends with you. I made a bad mistake, and started In the M - So great has been the de- mand for the first installment ©of “The Octopus,” published in The Sunday Call last Sunday, November 9, that edition already nearly exhausted. 1If you missed this.first number, published last Sunday, apply for The Sunday Call of that date at'once or you will be too 1ate. “The Octopus” was written by the late Frank Norris It is Mr. Norris’ stirongest novel. It has justly becn consider- ed the nearest approach to th “great American mnovel” eve written. It portrays life and scenes in California more vividly than any other book extant. It is now running in The Sunday Call. No extra charge! And by this means you read the best novel of the day—FREE!l o In his embarrassment Annixter could think of ro other words. * He kept reit- erating again and again during the pauses r)g the conversation: ‘I want you to forget it. Will you? Wiil you forget it—that—this morning, and have us be gond friends?"” He could see that her trouble was keen. He was astonished that the matter shou d be so grave In her estimation. After all, what was it that a girl should be kissed? But he wanted to regalin his lost ground. “Will you forget it, Miss Hilma? I want you to like me.” She took a clean napkin from the s'de- board drawer and laid it down by the plate. “1 do want you to like me,” persisted Annixter. “I want you to forget all about this business and like me.” Hilma was silent. Annixter saw the tears in her eyes. ‘““How abonut that? Will you forget it? Will you—will-will you like me?” 8he shook her head. “No,” she sald. “No wkat? You won't like me? Is that 1t? Hilma, blinking at the napkin thrnufh her tears, nodded to say, yes, that was it. Annixter hesitated a moment, frowning, harassed and perplexed. “You don’t like me at all, hey?"” At length Hilma found her speech. In her low voice, lower and more velvety (h"n;} ever, she said: 1 d e you at all.” ‘Then, as the tears suddenly overpowered her, she hed a hand across her eyes, and ran from the roem and out of doors. Annixter stood for a moment thought- ful, his protruding lower lip thrust out, hig hands in his pocket. ‘I _suppose she'll qlult now,” he mut- tered. uppose she’ll leave the ranch— if she hates me Iike that. go—that's all—she can go. girl,” he muttered “petticoat mess.” He was about to sit down to his supper when his eye fell upon the Irish satter, on his haunches in the doorway. There ‘was an expectant, ingratiating look on the dog’s face. No doubt he suspected It was time for eating. “‘Get out—you!" tempest of wrath. The dog slunk back, his tajl shut down close, his ears drooping. but instead of running away, he lay down and rolled supinely upon his back, the very image of submission, tame, abject, disgusting. It was the one thing to drive Annixter to @ fury. He kicked the dog off the porch in a rolling explosion of oaths, and flung himself down to his seat before the table, fuming and panting. “Damn_the dog and the girl and the whole rotten business—and now,” he ex- claimed, as a sudden fancied qualm arose iIn his stomach, ‘now, it's all made me gick. Might have known it. Oh, it only lacked that to wind up” the whole day. Let her go; I don't care, and the sooner the better.” He countermanded the supper and went to bed before it was dark, lighting his lamp on the chair near the head of the bed and opening his “Copperfleld” at the place marked by the strip of paper torn from the bag of prunes. For upward of an hour he read the novel, methodically lwlllowlng one prune every time he reached the bottom of a page. About 9 o’'clock he blew out the 1i fif. and, punch- ing up his pillow, settled himself for the nl%ht. hen, as his mind relaxed in that Well, she can Fool female between his teeth; roared Annixter in a back, drying in the sun; Magnus, erect 2= an cfficer of cavalry, smooth shaven, gray, thin-lipped, imposing, with his hawklike nose and forward curling gray hair; Presley with his dark face, delicate mouth and sensitive, loose lips, in cordu- roys and laced boots, smoking cigarettes —an interesting figure, suggestive of a mixed origin, morbid, excitable, melan- choly, brooding upon things that had no names. Then it was Bonneville, with the gayety and confusion of Main street, the whirring electric cars, the zinc-sheathed telegraph poles, the buckbcards with squashes stowed under the seats; Ruggles in frock coat, Stetson hat and shoestring necktie, writing _abstract- edly upon his blotting pad; Dyke, the engineer, big boned, powerful, deep voiced, good natured, with his fine blonde beard and massive arms, re- hearsing the praises of his little daughter Sidney, guided only by the one ambition that she should be educated at a semi- nary, slipping! a dime Into the toe of her diminutive slipper, then, later, over- whelmed with shame, slinking into 8. Behrman's office to mortgage his home- stead to the heeler of the corporation that bad discharged him. By suggestion, An- nixter saw S. Behrman, too, fat, with a vast stomach, the check and, neck meet- ing to form a great, tremulotis jowl, the roll of fat over his collar, sprinkled with sparse, stiff hairs; saw his brown, round- topped hat of varnished straw, the linen vest stamped with Innumerable interlock- ed horseshoes, the heavy watch chain clinking against the pearl vest buttons; invariably placid. unruffled, never losing his temper, serene, unassailable, en- throned. Then, at the end of all. it was the ranch again, seen in a last brief glance befors he had gone to bed; the fecundated earth, calm at last, nursing the emplanted germ of life, ruddy with the sunset, the hori- zons purple, the small clamor of the day lapsing into quiet, the great, still twilight, building itself, domelike, toward the zen- ith. The barn fowls were roosting in the trees near the stable, the horses crunch- ing their fodder In the stalls, the day's work ceasing by "slow degrees; and the riest, the Spanish churchman, Father arria, relic cf a departed regime, kindly, benign, believing in all goodness, a lover 5f his fellows and of dumb animals, yet, for all that, hurrying away in confusion and discomfiture, carrying in one hand the vessels of the holy communion and in the other a basket of game cocks. CHAPTER VL It was high noon, and the rays sun, that hung polsed directly overheng in an intolerable white glory, fell straight as plummets upon the roofs and streets of Guadalajara. The adobe walls and sparse brick sidewalks of the drowsing town radiated the heat in an oily, quiver. ing shimmer. The leaves of the eucalyp- tus trees around the plaza drooped mo- tlonless, imp and relaxed under the scorching, searching blaze. Thé shadows of these trees had shrunk to their small- est circumference, contracting close about the trunks. The shade had dwindled to the breadth of a mere line. The sun was everywhere. The heat exhaling from brick and plaster and metal met the heat that steadily descended blanketwise and smothering, from the pale, scorched sky. Only the lizards—they lived in chinks of the crumbling adobe and in interstices of the sidewalk—remained without. motlon~ less, as if %tufled. their eyes closed to mere slits, basking, stupefied with heat. At long mtervals the prolonged drone of an insect developed out of the silence, vibrated a moment in a soothing, somno- lent, long note, then trailed slowly into the quiet again. Somewhere In the inte- rior or one of the adobe houses a guitar snored and hummed sleepily. On the roof of the hotel a group of pigeons cooed in- cessantly with subdued, liquid murmurs, very plaintive: a cat, 'perfectly white, with a pink nose and thin, pink lips, dozed complacently on a fence rail, full in the sun. In a corner of the plaza three hens wallcwed in the baking hot dust, their wings fluttering, clucking comfortably. And this was all. A Sunday repose pre- vailed the whole moribund town, peace- ful, profound. A certain pleasing numb- ness, a sense of grateful emervation ex- haled from the scorching plaster. There was no mgvement, no sound of human business. The faint hum of the insect, the intermittent murmur of the guitar, the mellow complainings of the pigeons, the prolonged purr of the white cat, the contented clucking of the hens—all these noises mingled together to form a faint, drowsy bourdon, prolonged, stupefying, suggestive of an infintte quiet, of a calm, complacent life, centuries oid, lapsing gradually to its ersl under the gorgeous loneliness of a_cloudless, pale blue sky and the steady fire of an interminable sun. In Solotari's Spanish-Mexican restau- rant. Vanamee and Presley sat opposite e of the tables near the f white wine, tortillas and an earthen pot of frijoles between them. They were the occupants of the place. Jt was the day tha nnixter had chosen for his barn dance and, in consequence, Quien Sabe was In fete and work sus- pended. Presley and Vanamee had ar- ranged to spend the day in each other’s company, lunching at Solotari's and tak- ing a long tramp in the afterncon. For the moment they sat back in their chairs, thelr meal all but finished. Solotari brought black coffee and a small carafs of mescal, and retiring to a.corner of the room went to sleep. All through the meal Presley had been wondering over a certain change he ob- gerved in his friend. He looked at him again. Vanamee's lean, spare face was of an olive pallor. His long, black hair. such as one sees in the saints and evangelists of the pre-Raphaelite artists, hung over his ears. Presley again remarked his ointed beard, black and fine, growing rom the hollow cheeks. He looked at his face, a face like that of a young seer, like a half-inspired lha{:erd of the He- bralc legends, a dweller the wilderness, fted with strange powers. He was ressed as when Presley had first met him, herding his sheep, {n brown canvas overalls, thrust into top boots; gray flan. nel shirt, open at the throat, showing ths breast ruddy with tan; the walst encir cled with a cartridge belt, empty of ca: ridges. But now, as Presley took more careful note of him, he was surprised to observe & certain new look in Vanamee's deep- set eyes. He remembered now that all through the morning Vanamee had been singularly reserved. He was continually drifting into reveries, abstracted, distrait. Indub!tadhly‘ something of moment had happened. Avtplength Vanamee spoke. Leaning back in his chair, his thumbs in his belt, his bearded chin upon his breast, his voice was the even monotone of one speaking in_ his sleep. He told Presley in a few words what had happened during the first night he had spent in the garden of the old mis- slon, of the answer, half-fancied, half- real, that had come to him. “To no other person but you would I speak of this,” he said; “but you, I think, will understand—will be sympathetic, at least, and I feel the need of \Inburdenlng myself of it to some o At first T woul not trust my own senses. I was sure [ had deceived myself, but on a second night it happened again. Then I wi afraid—or no, not afraid, but disturbed— oh, shaken to my very heart's core. I resolved to go no further in the matter, never again to put it to the test. For a long time I stayed away from the mis. sion, occupying myself with my work, keeping It out of my mind. But the temptation was too strong. One night I found myself there again, under the black shadow of the pear trees calling for Angele, summoning her from out the dark, from out the night. This tyye the answer was prompt, un- mistakable. I cannot explain to you what it was, nor how it came to me, for there was no sound. I saw absolutely nothing but the empty night. There was no moon. But somewhere off there over the little valley, far off, the darkness was troubled; that me that went out upon my thought —out from the mission garden, out over the valley, calling for her, searching for Rer, found, I don’t know what, but found a resting place—a companion. Three times since then I have gone to the mis- slon garden at night. Last night was the third {ime.” He paused. his eyes shining with ex- citement. Presley leaned toward him, mo- tionless with intense absorption. “Well—and last night,”” he prompted. Vanamee stirred in his seat, his glance geln; he drummed an instant upon the ta- each other a dogr, a bott e. “Last night,” he answered, “there wag —there was a change. The answer was—" he drew a deep breath—'‘nearer.” “You are sure?” The other smiled with absolute cer tainty. “It was not that I found the answesr sooner, easier. I could not be mistaken. No, that which has troubled the dark- ness, that which has entered into the empty night—is coming nearer to me— physically nearer, actually nearer.” His voice sank agaim. is face like the face of younger prophets, the seers, took on a half-inspired expression. He looked vaguely before him with unseeing eyes. - “Buppose,” he murmured, “suppose I stand there under the pear trees at night and call her again and again, and each time the answer comes nearer and nearer and I wait until at last one night, the su- preme night of all, she—she— P Suddenly the tension broke. With sharp cry and a violent uncertain gesture of the hand Vanamee came to himself. “Oh!"_he exclaimed; “what is it? Do I dare? What does it mean? There are times when it appalls me and there times when it thrills me with a swee ness and a bappiness that I have not known since she died. The vagueness of it! How can I explaln It to you, this that happens when I call to.her acro: the night—that faint, far off, unseen trem- ble in the darkness, that Intangible, scarce- Iy perceptible stir. Something neither heard nor seen, appealing to a sixth sense only, Listen. it is something like thi On” Quien Sabe, all last week, we been seeding the earth. The grain . in the black stillness, under clods. the Can you imagine the first—the very first little quiver of life that the grain of wheat must feel after it is sown, when it answers to the call of the sun, down there in the dark of the earth, blind, deaf; the very first stir from the Iner long, long before any physical change h: occurred—long before the microscope could discover the slightest change—when the shell first tightens with the first faint premonition of life? Well, it is something as illusive as that”” He paused again, dreaming, lost in a reverie, thenm, just above a whisper, murmured: * “That which thou sowest is not quick ened except it die,” . and she, An- gele dfed."” “You could not have been mistaken id Presley. ‘““You were sure that there was something? Imagination can do so much and the influence of the surround- ings was strong. How impossible it would be that anything should happen. And you say you heard nothing, saw nothin “ pelieve,” gnswered Vanamee, “In a sixth sense. or, rather, a whole system of other unnamed senses beyond the reach of sur understanding. People who Itve much alone and close to nature experience the sensation of it. Perhaps it is something fundamental that we share with plants and animals. The same thing that sends the birds south long before the first colds, the same thing that makes the grain o wheat struggle up to meet the sun. And this sense never deceives. You may see wrong, hear wrong, but once touch this sixth sense and it acts with absolute fidel- ity, you are certain. No, I hear nothing in the mission garden. I see nothing, nothing touches me, but I am certain for all that.” Presley hesitated for a moment, then he asked: “Shall you go back to the garden again? Make the test again?” “T don’t know.” “‘Strange enough,” commented Presley, ‘wondering. Vanamee sank back in his chair, his eyes growing vacant again. “Strange enough,” he murmured. There was a long sllence. Neither spoke mor moved. There, in that moribund, an- clent town. wrapned In its siesta, flagel- lated with heat, deserted. ignored, baking in a noon-day silence, these two strange men. the one a poet by nature, the other by training, both out of tune with their world, dreamers. introspective. morbid, lost and unfamiliar at that end-of-the. century time, searching for a sign, grop ing.and baffled nmid the perplexing ob- scurity of the delusion. sat over empty wine glasses, silent with the pervading silence that surrounded them, hearing only the cooing of doves and the drone of bees, the quiet so profound, that at - -