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His own escape had been no less miraculous than that of his enemy, and he had fallen on his knees in inarticulate prayer, weeping, pouring out his thanks to God for the deliverance from the gulf to the very brink of which his feet had been drawn. After this, however, there had come to Presley a deep-rooted suspicion that he was of all human beings, the most wretched a failure.

When Presley reached Annixter's ranch house, he found young Annixter himself stretched in his hammock behind the mosquito-bar on the front porch, reading "David Copperfield," and gorging himself with dried prunes. Annixter after the two had exchanged greetings complained of terrific colics all the preceding night.

On the horse-trough that stood in the shadow of the tank was another freshly painted inscription: "S. Behrman Has Something To Say To You." As Presley straightened up after drinking from the faucet at one end of the horse-trough, the watering-cart itself laboured into view around the turn of the Lower Road.

But nobody was to go into Bonneville that morning with the mail, and if he wished to send his manuscript, he would have to take it in himself. He had resolved to do this, getting an early start, and going on horseback to Quien Sabe, by way of Bonneville. It was barely six o'clock when Presley sat down to his coffee and eggs in the dining-room of Los Muertos.

Cedarquist and I have started a movement to send a whole shipload of wheat to the starving people in India. Now, you horrid reactionnaire, are you satisfied?" "I am very glad," murmured Presley. "But I am afraid," observed Mrs. Cedarquist, "that we may be too late. They are dying so fast, those poor people. By the time our ship reaches India the famine may be all over."

'Over-cerebration, he says; 'over-excitement. I fancy I rather narrowly missed brain fever." "Well, I can easily suppose it," answered Cedarquist gravely, "after all you have been through." Presley closed his eyes they were sunken in circles of dark brown flesh and pressed a thin hand to the back of his head. "It is a nightmare," he murmured. "A frightful nightmare, and it's not over yet.

"Buck," he said, "I hear you've brought Mrs. Dyke and Sidney to live with you. You know, I think that's rather white of you." "Oh, rot, Pres," muttered Annixter, turning abruptly to his shaving. "And you can't fool me, either, old man," Presley continued. "You're giving this picnic as much for Mrs. Dyke and the little tad as you are for your wife, just to cheer them up a bit."

"Hello, Bismarck," said Presley, as Hooven brought his team to a standstill by the tank, preparatory to refilling. "Yoost der men I look for, Mist'r Praicely," cried the other, twisting the reins around the brake. "Yoost one minute, you wait, hey? I wanta talk mit you." Presley was impatient to be on his way again. A little more time wasted, and the day would be lost.

Their talk was in Spanish, a language with which Presley was familiar. "De La Cuesta held the grant of Los Muertos in those days," the centenarian said; "a grand man. He had the power of life and death over his people, and there was no law but his word. There was no thought of wheat then, you may believe.

He was gone. Presley, alone, thoughtful, his hands clasped behind him, passed on through the ranches here teeming with ripened wheat his face set from them forever. Not so Vanamee.