ho chewed, swapped
stories, yawned and studied the blackboards where the day's wants were
set forth. Only driven to labour by dire necessity, their lives, I
found, held three phases--looking for work, working, spending the
proceeds. They were the Great Unskilled, face to face with the necessary
evil of toil.

One morning, on seeking my favourite labour bureau, I found an unusual
flutter among the bench-warmers. A big contractor wanted fifty men
immediately. No experience was required, and the wages were to be two
dollars a day. With a number of others I pressed forward, was
interviewed and accepted. The same day we were marched in a body to the
railway depot and herded into a fourth-class car.

Where we were going I knew not; of what we were going to do I had no
inkling. I only knew we were southbound, and at long last I might fairly
consider myself to be the shuttlecock of fortune.

CHAPTER IV

I left San Francisco blanketed in grey fog and besomed by a roaring
wind; when I opened my eyes I was in a land of spacious sky and broad,
clean sunshine. Orange groves rushed to welcome us; orchards of almond
and olive twinkled joyfully in the limpid air; tall, gaunt and ragged,
the scaly eucalyptus fluttered at us a morning greeting, while snowy
houses, wallowing in greenery, flashed a smile as we rumbled past. It
seemed like a land of promise, of song and sunshine, and silent and
apart I sat to admire and to enjoy.

"Looks pretty swell, don't it?"

I will call him the Prodigal. He was about my own age, thin, but
sun-browned and healthy. His hair was darkly red and silky, his teeth
white and even as young corn. His eyes twinkled with a humorsome light,
but his face was shrewd, alert and aggressive.

"Yes," I said soberly, for I have always been backward with strangers.

"Pretty good line. The banana belt. Old Sol working overtime. Blossom
and fruit cavorting on the same tree. Eternal summer. Land of the
_manana_, the festive frijole, the never-chilly chili. Ever been here
before?"

"No."

"Neither have I. Glad I came, even if it's to do the horny-handed son
of toil stunt. Got the makings?"

"No, I'm sorry; I don't smoke."

"All right, guess I got enough."

He pulled forth a limp sack of powdery tobacco, and spilled some grains
into a brown cigarette paper, twisting it deftly and bending over the
ends. Then he smoked with such enjoyment that I envied him.

"Where are we going, have you any idea?" I as