ries in
the gamble, raised their right hands and swore: "I do solemnly swear
that I honestly desire to enter public lands for my own personal use as
a home and for settlement and cultivation, and not for speculation or in
the interest of some other person...."

In the excitement and chill of the October night, fingers shook so that
they could scarcely hold a pen. Commissioned notaries were getting 25
cents a head from the applicants. Real estate offices were jammed.

In between the registration stands were the hot-dog and coffee booths
with the tenders yelling, while thick black coffee flowed into tin cups
by the barrel, and sandwiches were handed out by the tubful. Popcorn and
peanut venders pushed through the crowd crying their wares. And among
the voices were those of the agents who were selling my postcards,
selling them like liniment in a patent-medicine show.

Spielers shouted the virtues of the food or drink or tent or land
locator they were advertising. Even the notaries got megaphones to
announce their services--until government authorities stepped in and
threatened to close them all up.

Into the slits in the huge cans which held the applications dropped a
surprising number of items. People became confused and used it as a mail
box, dropping in souvenir cards. One applicant even dropped in his
return fare. And some, shaking uncontrollably with excitement, were
barely able to drop their applications in at all.

And somewhere, off in the dark spaces beyond the flickering lights, lay
the million acres of land for which the horde was clamoring, its quiet
sleep unbroken.

There was a sharp tug at my arm, and I turned to see the reporter from
Chicago who had filed on the Brule Opening.

"I'm trying my luck again," he said.

So he had not won in the Brule lottery. Somehow I was glad to know that
was the reason for his not being on a claim there.

Sensing this, he said grimly: "So you thought I was a quitter."

As we clung to each other to keep from being separated in the hysterical
mob, I heard his hollow cough.

"Are you ill?" I asked.

"It's this crowd and the dust--my lungs--got to come west--"

I grabbed him by the coat sleeve, trying to make my voice carry above
the ballyhoo. "If you do not win here, come and see me. I can get you a
claim." The swaying throng separated us.

I rushed to the telegraph office and sent off my story. As I started
back I stopped to look upon the little town which had