--am--Idy Starkweather. This--is--my--fawther.
There! Now! Sabby?"

Evidently she considered failure to understand English a species of
physical disability which might be overcome by strong concentration of
the will.

The senora turned a bland, unmoved face upon her son. The eyes of the
newcomers followed her gaze. Ricardo held his cigarette between his
fingers, and blew a cloud of smoke above his head.

"She don' spik no Englis'," he said, looking at them mildly.

The girl flushed to the roots of her hay-colored frizz of hair. "You're
a nice one!" she said. "Why didn't you speak up?"

Ricardo gave her another gentle, undisturbed glance. "Ah on'stan' a
leetle Englis'; Ah c'n talk a leetle," he said calmly.

The girl hesitated an instant, letting her desire for information
struggle with her resentment. "Well, then," she said, lowering her voice
half sullenly, "my fawther here wants to ask you something. We live a
mile or so down the road. We've come out from Ioway this summer--me and
mother, that is; pappy here come in the spring, didn't you, pappy? An'
he bought the Slater place, an' there's ten acres of vineyard, an'
Barden,--he's the real 'state agent over t' Elsmore, you know 'im,--he
told my fawther they wuz all raisin-grapes, white muscat,--didn't he,
pappy?--an' my fawther here paid cash down fer the place, an' the
vineyard's comin' into bearin' next fall, an' Parker Lowe,--he has a
gov'ment claim on section eighteen, back of our ranch,---maybe you know
'im,--he says they're every one mission grapes--fer makin' wine. He
helped set 'em out, an' he says they got the cuttin's from your folks;
but I thought he wuz sayin' it just to plague me, so my fawther here
thought he'd come an' ask. If they are wine-grapes, that felluh Barden
lied--didn't he, pappy?"

The Mexican gazed at her pensively through the smoke of his cigarette.

"Yass, 'm," he said slowly and softly--"yass, 'm; Ah gass he tell good
deal lies. Ah gass he don' tell var' much trut'."

"Then they _are_ mission grapes?"

"Yass, 'm; dey all meession grapes; dey mek var' good wahn."

The girl's face flamed an angry red under her crimpled thatch of hair.
She put out her hand with a swift, protecting gesture, and caught her
father's sleeve.

The little man's cheeks were pale gray above his shaggy beard. He took
off his hat, and nervously wiped the damp hair from his forehead. His
daughter did not look at him. Ricardo could see the frayed plume on h