d
talking in the halls.

"Every day for a week Casey cooked cabbage, onions and fish. He sat up
nights to play the graphophone. He stayed home to talk loudly and play
bucking bronk with Babe all up and down the stairs and in the halls.
Our rent was paid for a month in advance, and the landlord was too
little and old to fight. So he sold out cheap--and it really was a
good stroke of business for us, though not deliberate.

"Well-sir, at first we lost tenants who didn't enjoy the freedom of
their neighbors' homes. But really, Jack, you'd be surprised to know
how many people in this city just LOVE cabbage and onions and fish, and
to have children they needn't disown whenever they go house-hunting. I
had ventilator hoods put over every gas range in the house, and turned
the back yard into a playground with plenty of sand piles and swings.
I raised the price, too, and made the place look very select, with a
roof garden for the grown-ups. We have the house filled now with
really nice families--avoiding the garlic brand--and as an investment I
wouldn't ask for anything better.

"Casey enjoyed himself hugely while he was whipping things into shape,
but the last month he's been going stale. The tenants are all so
thankful to do as they please that they're excruciatingly polite to
him, no matter what he does or says. He's tired of the beaches and he
has begun to cuss the long, smooth roads that are signed so that he
couldn't get lost if he tried. It does seem as if there's no interest
left in anything, unless he can get a kick out of going to jail. And,
Jack, I do believe he's gone there."

The telephone rang and the Little Woman excused herself and went into
the hall, closing the door softly behind her.

I'm not greatly given to reminiscence, but while I sat and watched the
flames of civilization licking tamely at the impregnable iron bark of
the gas logs, the eyes of my memory looked upon a picture:

Desert, empty and with the mountains standing back against the sky, the
great dipper uptilted over a peak and the stars bending close for very
friendliness. The licking flames of dry greasewood burning, with a
pungent odor in my nostrils when the wind blew the smoke my way. The
far-off hooting of an owl, perched somewhere on a juniper branch
watching for mice; and Casey Ryan sitting cross-legged in the sand,
squinting humorously at me across the fire while he talked.

I saw him, too, bolting a hurried breakfast un