ccord of his six strings. It was no place
for a passive soul. I parted swiftly from the hammock and made over the
sun-scorched turf for the ranch house. There was shelter and surcease;
doors and windows might be closed. The unctuous whine of Jimmie Time
pursued me:

Each ow-wur a pur-rull, each pur-rull a prayer,
(Thud, thud!)
Tuh stu-hill a heart in absence wru-hung,
(Thud, thud!)

As I reached the hospitable door of the living-room I observed Lew Wee,
Chinese chef of the Arrowhead, engaged in cranking one of those devices
with a musical intention which I have somewhere seen advertised. It is
an important-looking device in a polished mahogany case, and I recall in
the advertisement I saw it was surrounded by a numerous
enthralled-looking family in a costly drawing-room, while the ghost of
Beethoven simpered above it in ineffable benignancy. Something now told
me the worst, even as Lew Wee adjusted the needle to the revolving disk.
I waited for no more than the opening orchestral strains. It is a
leisurely rhythmed cacophony, and I had time to be almost beyond range
ere the voice took up a tale I was hearing too often in one day. Even so
I distantly perceived it to be a fruity contralto voice with an expert
sob.

A hundred yards in front of the ranch house all was holy peace, peace in
the stilled air, peace dreaming along the neighbouring hills and lying
like a benediction over the wide river-flat below me, through which the
stream wove a shining course. I exulted in it, from the dangers passed.
Then appeared Mrs. Lysander John Pettengill from the fringe of
cottonwoods, jolting a tired horse toward me over the flat.

"Come have some tea," she cordially boomed as she passed. I returned
uncertainly. Tea? Yes. But--However, the door would be shut and the
Asiatic probably diverted.

As I came again to the rear of the ranch house Mrs. Pettengill, in khaki
riding breeches, flannel shirt, and the hat of her trade, towered
bulkily as an admirable figure of wrath, one hand on her hip, one
poising a quirt viciously aloft. By the corral gate Buck Devine drooped
cravenly above his damaged saddle; at the door of the bunk house Sandy
Sawtelle tottered precariously on one foot, his guitar under his arm, a
look of guilty horror on his set face. By the stable door stood the
incredibly withered Jimmie Time, shrinking a vast dismay.

"You hear me!" exploded the infuriated chatelaine, and I knew she was
repeating t