edited the remark.

Gilbert handed him the bottle. "Maybe this will atone for the postponed
banquet," he smiled. He got the water-bottle hanging on the peg by the
fireplace, and brought that to Pell also. He tried to be as gracious as he
could to anyone under his roof.

Pell took a swig out of the bottle--a long one. "Good God!" he exclaimed,
his face almost purple, his brow puckered like a dwarf's.

"What's the matter?" Gilbert said. And he handed him the water-bottle.

"It's poison!" Pell cried. And as if he really believed it, and as though
water were an antidote, he grabbed the water-bottle and drank from it
swiftly and loudly. It was horrible the way he guzzled the liquid down. An
animal would have done better.

"The Mexicans like their liquor strong," young Jones explained. "That's
what's the matter with the cook."

Lucia was puzzled. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"Simply that he's been imbibing again. That's why dinner is so late. But
we're getting used to it. There is nothing to do but stand it."

"Drunk?" Pell asked.

"Quite," answered Gilbert.

"Well, I don't know as you can blame him," Pell excused. "I'd be drunk too
if I had to live here. What are you going to do about it?" He hung the
water-bottle in its place on the peg.

"Red's trying to sober him up," Gilbert said.

They had had enough of the cook, Pell decided within himself. Dinner was
inevitably late, and that was all there was about it. So he changed the
subject abruptly.

"This ranch belongs to you, doesn't it?" he put the question direct to
Jones.

"What's that?"

"I asked you," went on Pell, a little disconcerted at having to repeat his
question, "if you own this ranch."

"I--er--yes. Why?" Gilbert said.

Pell was quick to notice the other's discomfiture. "I have a friend who
thinks he wants to go into the cattle business. He asked me to look him up
a place. It's his own money, of course."

"Then I'd advise him not to buy here," said Gilbert, much to Pell's
amazement.

"Why?"

"It's too near the border," Jones answered. "The bandits come over and
steal all your cattle. It's a rotten situation. I'm sorry I ever came down
here."

"That makes it all the better," Pell was shrewd enough to say. "Then he'd
lose his money quick, and be satisfied." And he laughed at what he thought
a witticism.

Uncle Henry's wheel chair crossed the sill at that moment. His face was
full of news. "Hardy's coming!" he informed those in the