to the bleak plains. At last I read
her aright, that quiet woman of silence. She knew the father of her
children from the outer rind to the inmost core. I thought of the
pretty daughters, who did not know. And out yonder stood the son.

Ajax beckoned me aside. We whispered together for a moment or two.
Then my brother spoke--

"We're going to lead home our colts," he said curtly; "and you can
lead home yours. We shall take better care of ours after this
experience. They won't be allowed to run wild in the back pasture."

"Boys--Quincey an' me----"

"Shush-h-h!" said Ajax. "That fellow out there is a long way off. I
could not swear in a court of law that he is the person we take him to
be. Whom he looks like we know, who he is we don't know, and we don't
wish to know. So long."

We rode back to our colts.

III

PAP SPOONER

Pap Spooner was about sixty-five years old, and the greatest miser in
San Lorenzo County. He lived on less than a dollar a day, and allowed
the rest of his income to accumulate at the rate of one per cent, a
month, compound interest.

When Ajax and I first made his acquaintance he was digging post-holes.
The day, a day in September, was uncommonly hot. I said, indiscreetly:
"Mr. Spooner, why do you dig post-holes?"

With a queer glint in his small, dull grey eyes he replied, curtly:
"Why are you boys a-shootin' quail--hey? 'Cause ye like to, I reckon.
Fer the same reason I like ter dig post-holes. It's jest recreation--
to me."

When we were out of earshot Ajax laughed.

"Recreation!" said my brother. "Nothing will ever recreate him. Of all
the pinchers----"

"Shush-h-h!" said I. "It's too hot."

Our neighbours told many stories of Pap Spooner. Even that bland old
fraud, John Jacob Dumble, admitted sorrowfully that he was no match
for Pap in a horse, cattle, or pig deal; and George Leadham, the
blacksmith, swore that Pap would steal milk from a blind kitten. The
humorists of the village were of opinion that Heaven had helped Pap
because he had helped himself so freely out of other folks' piles.

In appearance Andrew Spooner was small, thin, and wiry, with the beak
of a turkey-buzzard, the complexion of an Indian, and a set of large,
white, very ill-fitting false teeth, which clicked like castanets
whenever the old man was excited.

Now, in California, "Pap" is a _nom de caresse_ for father. But,
so far as we knew, Pap had no children; accordingly we jumped to the
conclus