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I returned to report these facts, received an indifferent nod, and, under further instruction, went quietly to camp to await the agreed hour. We started up the trail about eight o'clock. Yank insisted that he was going, if he had to roll all the way; but after a little we simultaneously remembered that the Moreñas had owned horses.
The Author and his secretary were up to the eyes in a new chapter; The Suffragist was spreading the glad tidings; and Riedriech and Schmetz had Luis Morenas in hand for the afternoon, visioning the United States of the World, while he snatched sketches of the visionaries. The Author, Mr. Johnson, and I, lunched together.
"Now I wonder who Danny Randall is!" speculated Johnny after our visitor had departed. "He talked as though we ought to know all about it. I'm going to find out the first fellow I get acquainted with." Next morning we asked the Moreñas who was Danny Randall. "El diabolo," replied Moreña shortly; and trudged obstinately away to his work without vouchsafing further information.
Barry agreed to everything, very solemn and very owlish. We descended on Yank like a storm. I will say that McNally at any time was irresistible and irrepressible, but especially so in his cups. We laughed ourselves sick that afternoon. The Moreñas were enchanted. Under instructions, and amply supplied with dust, Moreña went to town and returned with various bottles.
It is one's moral duty to encourage men of talent." "Whoop!" cried The Author, joyously, when I told him that. "Revenge yourself, Morenas: sketch her, man! sketch her!" Morenas laughed. "Put her in one of your books and make her talk," he suggested slyly. "You have a genius for making a woman talk like an idiot." "That's because he does the talking for her, himself," said Alicia, impudently.
One could not live under the same roof with thin dark Luis Morenas and view what magic his pencil worked, without learning somewhat of the holiness of creative work.
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