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Updated: June 15, 2025
He wore his old grey woolen shirt, open at the throat, his brown duck trousers stuffed into his run-over boots, and his white felt sombrero on the back of his head. Twenty years or fifty he might look; Dry Valley cared not. His light blue eyes met Panchita's dark ones with a cold flash in them. He came as far as the gate. He pointed with his long arm to her house. "Go home," said Dry Valley.
Then I'll come round and cast my searchlight eye over him and see if he's a proper companion for little Panchita." "No fear," she cried, throwing the card back in the box. "Little Panchita's got a searchlight eye of her own. Believe me, it's a good, trained, old eye. Now skiddoo. I've got to slip into my togs and then me for home and a glass of milk.
Wait till I show you," she jumped up, rubbing her oily fingers on the towel, "and you'll see why little Panchita's had to get an extra-sized hat." She took from a side table a book the actress's scrap album and came back flirting its pages. At one she pressed it open and held it toward him, triumphantly pointing to a clipping. "There, from the Sacramento Courier."
He wore his old grey woolen shirt, open at the throat, his brown duck trousers stuffed into his run-over boots, and his white felt sombrero on the back of his head. Twenty years or fifty he might look; Dry Valley cared not. His light blue eyes met Panchita's dark ones with a cold flash in them. He came as far as the gate. He pointed with his long arm to her house. "Go home," said Dry Valley.
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