"Yes," said one man eagerly, "did you find them?"

"I didn't say I did, but if I could get them for you, would you cash
this time-cheque for me?"

"Sure," he says, "one good turn deserves another. Deliver the goods and
I'll cash your time-cheque."

His face was frank and jovial. I drew out the envelope and handed it
over. He hurriedly ran through the contents and saw that all were there.

"Ha! That saves a trip to 'Frisco," he said, gay with relief.

He turned to the bar and ordered a round of drinks. They all had a drink
on him, while he seemed to forget about me. I waited a little, then
pressed forward with my time-cheque.

"Oh that," said he, "I won't cash that. I was only joshing."

A feeling of bitter anger welled up within me. I trembled like a leaf.

"You won't go back on your word?" I said.

He became flustered.

"Well, I can't do it anyway. I've got no loose cash."

What I would have said or done I know not, for I was nigh desperate; but
at this moment the stage-driver, flushed with his victory at freeze-out,
snatched the paper from my hand.

"Here, I'll discount that for you. I'll only give you five dollars for
it, though."

It called for fourteen, but by this time I was so discouraged I gladly
accepted the five-dollar goldpiece he held out to tempt me.

Thus were my fortunes restored. It was near midnight and I asked the
German for a room. He replied that he was full up, but as I had my
blankets there was a nice dry shed at the back. Alas! it was also used
by his chickens. They roosted just over my head, and I lay on the filthy
floor at the mercy of innumerable fleas. To complete my misery the green
oranges I had eaten gave me agonizing cramps. Glad, indeed, was I when
day dawned, and once more I got afoot, with my face turned towards Los
Angeles.

CHAPTER VIII

Los Angeles will always be written in golden letters in the archives of
my memory. Crawling, sore and sullen, from the clutch of toil, I
revelled in a lotus life of ease and idleness. There was infinite
sunshine, and the quiet of a public library through whose open windows
came the fragrance of magnolias. Living was incredibly cheap. For
seventy-five cents a week I had a little sunlit attic, and for ten cents
I could dine abundantly. There was soup, fish, meat, vegetables, salad,
pudding and a bottle of wine. So reading, dreaming and roaming the
streets, I spent my days in a state of beatitude.

But even five dollars will