. Gangs of men were everywhere, ripping
and tearing at the mountain side. There was a roar of blasting, and
rocks hurtled down on us. Bunkhouses of raw lumber sweated in the sun.
Everywhere was the feverish activity of a construction camp.

We were assigned to a particular bunkhouse, and there was a great rush
for places. It was floorless, doorless and in part roofless. Above the
medley of voices I heard that of the Prodigal:

"Say, fellows, let's find the softest side of this board! Strikes me the
Company's mighty considerate. All kinds of ventilation. Good chance to
study astronomy. Wonder if I couldn't borrow a mattress somewhere? Ha!
Good eye! Watch me, fellows!"

We saw him make for a tent nearby where horses were stabled. He
reconnoitred carefully, then darted inside to come out in a twinkling,
staggering under a bale of hay.

"How's that for rustling? I guess I'm slow--hey, what? Guess this is
poor!"

He was wadding his bunk with the hay, while the others looked on rather
enviously. Then, as a bell rang, he left off.

"Hash is ready, boys; last call to the dining-car. Come on and see the
pigs get their heads in the trough."

We hurried to the cookhouse, where a tin plate, a tin cup, a tin spoon
and a cast-iron knife was laid for each of us at a table of unplaned
boards. A great mess of hash was ready, and excepting myself every one
ate voraciously. I found something more to my taste, a can of honey and
some soda crackers, on which I supped gratefully.

When I returned to the bunkhouse I found my bunk had been stuffed with
nice soft hay, and my blankets spread on top. I looked over to the
Prodigal. He was reading, a limp cigarette between his yellow-stained
fingers. I went up to him.

"It's very good of you to do this," I said.

"Oh no! Not at all. Don't mention it," he answered with much
politeness, never raising his eyes from the book.

"Well," I said, "I've just got to thank you. And look here, let's make
it up. Don't let the business of that wretched money come between us.
Can't we be friends anyway?"

He sprang up and gripped my hand.

"Sure! nothing I want more. I'm sorry. Another time I'll make allowance
for that shorter-catechism conscience of yours. Now let's go over to
that big fire they've made and chew the rag."

So we sat by the crackling blaze of mesquite, sagebrush and live-oak
limbs, while over us twinkled the friendly stars, and he told me many a
strange story of his roving life.