aid Bartley.

"Huh! That's just like them fairy stories that Dorry reads to me
sometimes. I like stories about Buffalo Bill and Injuns and fights.
Fairy stories make me tired."

"Jimmy thinks he is quite grown up," teased Dorothy.

"You ain't growed up yourself, anyhow," retorted Jimmy. "Girls ain't
growed up till they git married."

Dorothy turned to Bartley and began to talk about books and writers.
Little Jim frowned. Why couldn't they talk about something worth
listening to? Jimmy examined his new rifle, sighting it at different
objects, and opening and closing the empty magazine. Finally he loaded
it. His companions of the hunt were deep in a discussion having to do
with Western stories. Jimmy fidgeted under the constant stress of
keeping silent. He would have interrupted Dorothy, willingly enough, but
Bartley's presence rather awed him.

Jimmy felt that his afternoon was being wasted. However, there was the
solace of the new rifle, and plenty of ammunition. While he knew there
was no big game in those hills, he could pretend that there was. He
debated with himself as to whether he would hunt deer, bear, or mountain
lion. Finally he decided he would hunt bear. He waited for an
opportunity to leave without being noticed, and, carrying his trusty
rifle at the ready, he stealthily disappeared in the brush south of the
spring. A young boy, with a new gun and lots of brush to prowl through!
Under such circumstances the optimist can imagine anything from rabbits
to elephants.

Some time passed before Dorothy missed him. She called. There was no
reply. "He won't go far," she assured Bartley who rose to go and look
for Jimmy.

Bartley sat down by the spring again. He questioned Dorothy in regard to
ranch life, social conditions, local ambitions, and the like. Quite
impersonally she answered him, explaining that the folk in the valley
were quite content, so long as they were moderately successful. Of
course, the advent of that funny little machine, the automobile, would
revolutionize ranch life, eventually. Why, a wealthy rancher of San
Andreas had actually driven to Los Angeles and back in one of those
little machines!

Bartley smiled. "They've come to stay, no doubt. But I can't reconcile
automobiles with saddle-horses and buckboards. I shan't have an
automobile snorting and snuffing through my story."

"Your story!"

"I really didn't mean to speak about it. But the cat is out of the bag.
I'm making notes fo