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About that time the greatest luxury in the entire world seemed to me to be a glass of fresh sweet milk, and I shall always remember Mr. Packwood's ranch, because we had milk to drink with our supper, and some delicious quail to eat. Ranches in that part of Arizona meant only low adobe dwellings occupied by prospectors or men who kept the relays of animals for stage routes.
Wretched, forbidding-looking places they were! Never a tree or a bush to give shade, never a sign of comfort or home. Our tents were pitched near Packwood's, out in the broiling sun. They were like ovens; there was no shade, no coolness anywhere; we would have gladly slept, after the day's march, but instead we sat broiling in the ambulances, and waited for the long afternoon to wear away.
You heard of nothing, wherever you went, but of Belinda Portman, and Belinda Portman's accomplishments: Belinda Portman, and her accomplishments, I'll swear, were as well advertised as Packwood's razor strops." "Mrs. Stanhope overdid the business, I think," resumed the gentleman who began the conversation: "girls brought to the hammer this way don't go off well.
"A gentleman of my acquaintance lately went to buy some razors at Packwood's. Mrs. Packwood alone was visible. Upon the gentleman's complimenting her on the infinite variety of her husband's ingenious and poetical advertisements, she replied, 'La! sir, and do you think husband has time to write them there things his-self? Why, sir, we keeps a poet to do all that there work."
"Do you forget that Belinda Portman and her accomplishments have already been as well advertised as Packwood's razor-strops?" The manner in which these words were pronounced made a great impression upon Clarence Hervey, and he began to believe it was possible that a niece of the match-making Mrs. Stanhope might not be "a compound of art and affectation."
All the pens that ever were employed in magnifying Bish's lucky office, Romanis's fleecy hosiery, Packwood's razor strops, and Rowland's Kalydor, all the placard-bearers of Dr. Eady, all the wall- chalkers of Day and Martin, seem to have taken service with the poets and novelists of this generation.
At about noon we reached a forlorn mud hut, known as Packwood's ranch. But the place had a bar, which was cheerful for some of the poor men, as the two days' marches had been rather hard upon them, being so "soft" from the long voyage.
Packwood's permission, Billy and I sped away to join the line. I had never been granted such a privilege before, and had no idea what it all meant. As we approached the edge of the marsh, the squaws walked more slowly, with their eyes fixed upon the ground.
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