en in those early days experts were of opinion that oil might be
found below the croppings of bituminous rock by any pioneer
enterprising enough to bore for it.

About this time we began to notice that Uncle Jap was losing interest
in his ranch. Cattle strayed through the fence because he neglected to
mend it, calves escaping were caught and branded by unscrupulous
neighbours, a colt was found dead, cast in a deep gulch.

"What's the matter with Uncle Jap?" we asked, at the May-Day picnic.

Mrs. Fullalove, a friend of Mrs. Panel, answered the question.

"I'll tell ye," she said sharply. "Jaspar Panel has gotten a disease
common enough in Californy. He's sufferin' from a dose o' swelled
head."

Mrs. Panel sprang to her feet. Her face was scarlet; her pale eyes
snapped; the nostrils of her thin nose were dilated.

"Susan Jane Fullalove," she cried shrilly, "how dare you?"

Mrs. Fullalove remained calm.

"It's so, Lily. Yer so thin, I didn't see ye sittin' edgeways, but ye
needn't to ramp an' roar. Yer ranch _is_ flyin' to flinders
because Mr. Panel's tuk a notion that it's a-floatin' on a lake of
ile."

"An' mebbe it is," replied Mrs. Panel, subsiding.

Shortly afterwards we heard that Uncle Jap was frequenting saloons,
hanging about the hotels in the county town, hunting, of course, for a
capitalist who would bore for oil on shares, seeking the "angel" with
the dollars who would transport him and his Lily into the empyrean of
millionaires. When he confided as much to us, my brother Ajax
remarked--

"Hang it all, Uncle Jap, you've got all you want."

"That's so. I hev. But Lily----Boys, I don't like ter give her away--
this is between me an' you--she's the finest in the land, ain't she?
Yas. An' work? Great Minneapolis! Why, work come mighty near robbin'
her of her looks. It did, fer a fact. An' now, she'd ought ter take
things easy, an' hev a good time."

"She does have a good time."

"Ajax, yer talkin' through yer hat. What do you know of wimmenfolk?
Not a derned thing. They're great at pretendin'. I dessay you, bein' a
bachelor, think that my Lily kind o' wallers in washin' my ole duds,
an' cookin' the beans and bacon when the thermometer's up to a hundred
in the shade, and doin' chores around the hog pens an' chicken yards?
Wal--she don't. She pretends, fer my sake, but bein' a lady born an'
bred, her mind's naterally set on--silks an' satins, gems, a pianner--
an' statooary."

"I can't believe it,