ham to the Buena Vista. Although it wanted but a few
hours until train time, he drifted around to his customary stopping
place, resolved to enjoy a quiet smoke by the great plate-glass windows
before which the ever-varying theatre crowds stream by from Main Street
cars. He had been thus settled for some time, when he heard his name
pronounced by the man occupying the next chair.

"Bob Orde!" he cried; "but this is luck!"

Bob looked around to see an elderly, gray-haired, slender man, of keen,
intelligent face, pure white hair and moustache, in whom he recognized
Mr. Frank Taylor, a lifelong friend of his father's and one of the best
lawyers his native state had produced. He sprang to his feet to grasp
the older man's hand. The unexpected meeting was especially grateful,
for Bob had been long enough without direct reminders of his old home to
be hungry for them. Ever since he could remember, the erect, military
form of Frank Taylor had been one of the landmarks of memory, like the
sword that had belonged to Georgie Cathcart's father, or like the
kindly, homely, gray figure of Mr. Kincaid in his rickety, two-wheeled
cart--the man who had given Bob his first firearm.

After first greetings and inquiries, the two men sank back to finish
their smoke together.

"It's good to see you again," observed Bob, "but I'm sorry your business
brings you out here at this time of year. This is our dry season, you
know. Everything is brown. I like it myself, as do most Californians,
but an Easterner has to get used to it. After the rains, though, the
country is wonderful."

"This isn't my first trip," said Taylor. "I was out here for some months
away back in--I think it was '79. I remember we went in to Santa Barbara
on a steamer that fired a gun by way of greeting! Strangely enough, the
same business brings me here now."

"You are out here on father's account?" hazarded Bob, to whom the year
1879 now began to have its significance.

"Exactly. Didn't you get your father's letter telling of my coming?"

"I've been from headquarters three days," Bob explained.

"I see. Well, he sent you this message: 'Tell Bob to go ahead. I can
take care of myself.'"

"Bully for dad!" cried Bob, greatly heartened.

"He told me he did not want to advise you, but that in the old days when
a fight was on, the spectators were supposed to do their own dodging."

"I'd about come to that conclusion," said Bob, "but it surely does me
good to feel tha