ne toward town, and went out to the road and stopped him. After
some roundabout conversation Bob remarked:

"By the way, a friend of mine has a little money he wants to lend to
cotton growers at 10 per cent. Do you suppose you would be able to use
a couple of hundreds of it?"

"Ahem!" The ex-professor ran a bony hand over a lean chin. "It is
extremely probable, young man, extremely probable. I am very much
inclined to think that I can--that is, provided he would esteem my
personal signature to a promissory note sufficient guarantee for the
payment of the indebtedness."

"That will be entirely sufficient." Bob smiled reassuringly, and
pretended to write out--it was already prepared--a note. Chandler
signed, and Bob gave him two hundred dollars in currency.

The next evening when Bob returned from the field he found a sealed
envelope on the little board table in his shack. It contained $100 in
currency and a note which read:

You can't afford this loan; but we need the money so darned bad I'm
going to split it with you. I like the fiddle better than any musical
instrument that is made.

I. C.

Toward the last of June old cotton growers told Bob that his field was
sure to go a bale and a quarter an acre, and Chandler's was about as
good.

On the twenty-sixth of June a Mexican officer came to the ranch and
arrested Rogeen's Chinese cook and one of his field hands. Bob offered
bail, but it was refused. The day following the remaining Chinaman was
arrested.

Bob got other hands, but on July first all three of these were arrested.

"I see," Bob said to himself, thinking it over that evening, "this is
the first of Jenkins' schemes. They are going to make Chinamen afraid
to work for me. Well, Noah and I can manage until I can hire some
Americans."

At nine o'clock it was yet too hot to sleep, and Bob too restless to
sit still. He got up and started out to walk. Without any definite
intention he turned down the road south. He had gone about half a mile
and thought of turning back when he saw something in the road
ahead--something white. It was a woman, and she was running toward him.

CHAPTER XIII

Bob hastened to meet the figure in the road. He knew it was Imogene
Chandler, and that her haste meant she was either desperately
frightened or in great trouble.

"Is that you, Mr. Rogeen?" She checked up and called to him fifty
yards away.

"Yes. What is the matter?"

"I've been fri