ks against it.
Although the sand sifted in on them constantly, they were at least away
from the fury of the wind. There was water a-plenty at hand and they
could bide their time. Peter established himself with his forefeet in
the water, his tail to the storm and appeared to go to sleep.

For a time, Roger and Charley were glad to sit in silence, recovering
their breath. But finally Roger stretched his cramped legs with a sigh.

"Charley, I find desert life just a bit strenuous," he said.

Charley wiped her face vigorously with her bandanna and nodded.

"So do I. But I like it. I think I must like the constant fight and the
awful beauty. There's nothing else here."

"Have you anything in you but Anglo-Saxon blood?" asked Roger.

"No," replied Charley.

"That accounts for your loving it, I believe. The Anglo-Saxons are the
trail makers for civilization. And by Jove, if any two people on earth
are making trails it's you and Dick."

"You're Anglo-Saxon yourself. What is your work but trail making?"

"We aren't all trail makers!" Roger gave a half cynical chuckle. "You
know I'm solving the labor question."

"With old Rabbit Tail's gang?"

"Hardly! Yet, by golly, Charley, I don't know but what I'm developing a
typical labor situation down here. The Indian gang is working as a
favor, you understand, and not from any necessity."

Charley laughed. "If it weren't for you inventors, we all could revert
comfortably to Rabbit Tail's philosophy."

"It was to make that philosophy workable that started me inventing. That
is, to give every man food and shelter with a minimum of work."

Once fairly launched, Roger gave Charley a rapid picture of the strike
and the burning of the factory. When he had finished the two sat long in
silence watching the gray veil that roared before them.

At last Charley shook her head. "It's a long trail from the old plow
factory to the hieroglyphic spring, Roger."

"A long way," agreed Roger, "and I have no idea whether I'm helping or
hindering labor. I only know now that my job is to make deserts bloom.
Let labor go hang!"

Charley did not answer. She sat with her brown hands clasping her khaki
knees, her hat pulled low over her eyes. Roger eyed her affectionately.
It occurred to him that since Felicia's death, she had seemed more than
ever like a fine intelligent boy. And yet he was honest enough to tell
himself that there was infinitely more satisfaction in sitting in a
hollowed rock