"I've never forgotten the drip of the seed-amethysts, though I

  don't remember your mother's name."

  "It was Daisy--" Saxon began.

  "No; Dayelle," Mrs. Mortimer corrected with quickening

  recollection.

  "Oh, but nobody called her that."

  "But she signed it that way. What is the rest?"

  "Daisy Wiley Brown."

  Mrs. Mortimer went to the bookshelves and quickly returned with a

  large, soberly-bound volume.

  "It's 'The Story of the Files,'" she explained. "Among other

  things, all the good fugitive verse was gathered here from the

  old newspaper files." Her eyes running down the index suddenly

  stopped. "I was right. Dayelle Wiley Brown. There it is. Ten of

  her poems, too: 'The Viking's Quest'; 'Days of Gold';

  'Constancy'; 'The Caballero'; 'Graves at Little Meadow'--"

  "We fought off the Indians there," Saxon interrupted in her

  excitement. "And mother, who was only a little girl, went out and

  got water for the wounded. And the Indians wouldn't shoot at her.

  Everybody said it was a miracle." She sprang out of Billy's arms,

  reaching for the book and crying: "Oh, let me see it! Let me see

  it! It's all new to me. I don't know these poems. Can I copy

  them? I'll learn them by heart. Just to think, my mother's!"

  Mrs. Mortimer's glasses required repolishing; and for half an

  hour she and Billy remained silent while Saxon devoured her

  mother's lines. At the end, staring at the book which she had

  closed on her finger, she could only repeat in wondering awe:

  "And I never knew, I never knew."

  But during that half hour Mrs. Mortimer's mind had not been idle.

  A little later, she broached her plan. She believed in intensive

  dairying as well as intensive farming, and intended, as soon as

  the lease expired, to establish a Jersey dairy on the other ten

  acres. This, like everything she had done, would be model, and it

  meant that she would require more help. Billy and Saxon were just

  the two. By next summer she could have them installed in the

  cottage she intended building. In the meantime she could arrange,

  one way and another, to get work for Billy through the winter.

  She would guarantee this work, and she knew a small house they

  could rent just at the end of the car-line. Under her supervision

  Billy could take charge from the very beginning of the building.

  In this way they would be earning money, preparing themselves for

  independent farming life, and have opportunity to look about

  them.

  But her persuasions were in vain. In the end Saxon succinctly

  epitomized their point of view.

  "We can't stop at the first place, even if it is as beautiful and

  kind as yours and as nice as this valley is. We don't even know

  what we want. We've got to go farther, and see all kinds of

  places and all kinds of ways, in order to find out. We're not in

  a hurry to make up our minds. We want to make, oh, so very sure!

  And besides. . . ." She hesitated. "Besides, we don't like

  altogether flat land. Billy wants some hills in his. And so do

  I."

  When they were ready to leave Mrs. Mortimer offered to present

  Saxon with "The Story of the Files"; but Saxon shook her head and

  got some money from Billy.

  "It says it costs two dollars," she said. "Will you buy me one,

  and keep it till we get settled? Then I'll write, and you can

  send it to me."

  "Oh, you Americans," Mrs. Mortimer chided, accepting the money.

  "But you must promise to write from time to time before you're

  settled."

  She saw them to the county road.

  "You are brave young things," she said at parting. "I only wish I

  were going with you, my pack upon my back. You're perfectly

  glorious, the pair of you. If ever I can do anything for you,

  just let me know. You're bound to succeed, and I want a hand in

  it myself. Let me know how that government land turns out,

  though I warn you I haven't much faith in its feasibility. It's

  sure to be too far away from markets."

  She shook hands with Billy. Saxon she caught into her arms and

  kissed.

  "Be brave," she said, with low earnestness, in Saxon's ear.

  "You'll win. You are starting with the right ideas. And you were

  right not to accept my proposition. But remember, it, or better,

  will always be open to you. You're young yet, both of you. Don't

  be in a hurry. Any time you stop anywhere for a while, let me

  know, and I'll mail you heaps of agricultural reports and farm

  publications. Good-bye. Heaps and heaps and heaps of luck."

  CHAPTER IV

  Bill sat motionless on the edge of the bed in their little room

  in San Jose that night, a musing expression in his eyes.

  "Well," he remarked at last, with a long-drawn breath, "all I've

  got to say is there's some pretty nice people in this world after

  all. Take Mrs. Mortimer. Now she's the real goods--regular old

  American."

  "A fine, educated lady," Saxon agreed, "and not a bit ashamed to

  work at farming herself. And she made it go, too."

  "On twenty acres--no, ten; and paid for 'em, an' all

  improvements, an' supported herself, four hired men, a Swede

  woman an' daughter, an' her own nephew. It gets me. Ten acres!

  Why, my father never talked less'n one hundred an' sixty acres.

  Even your brother Tom still talks in quarter sections.--An' she

  was only a woman, too. We was lucky in meetin' her."

  "Wasn't it an adventure!" Saxon cried. "That's what comes of

  traveling. You never know what's going to happen next. It jumped

  right out at us, just when we were tired and wondering how much

  farther to San Jose. We weren't expecting it at all. And she

  didn't treat us as if we were tramping. And that house--so clean

  and beautiful. You could eat off the floor. I never dreamed of

  anything so sweet and lovely as the inside of that house."

  "It smelt good," Billy supplied.

  "That's the very thing. It's what the women's pages call

  atmosphere. I didn't know what they meant before. That house has

  beautiful, sweet atmosphere--"

  "Like all your nice underthings," said Billy.

  "And that's the next step after keeping your body sweet and clean

  and beautiful. It's to have your house sweet and clean and

  beautiful."

  "But it can't be a rented one, Saxon. You've got to own it.

  Landlords don't build houses like that. Just the same, one thing

  stuck out plain: that house was not expensive. It wasn't the

  cost. It was the way. The wood was ordinary wood you can buy in

  any lumber yard. Why, our house on Pine street was made out of

  the same kind of wood. But the way it was made was different. I

  can't explain, but you can see what I'm drivin' at."

  Saxon, revisioning the little bungalow they had just left,

  repeated absently: "That's it--the way."

  The next morning they were early afoot, seeking through the

  suburbs of San Jose the road to San Juan and Monterey. Saxon's

  limp had increased. Beginning with a burst blister, her heel was

  skinning rapidly. B
illy remembered his father's talks about care

  of the feet, and stopped at a butcher shop to buy five cents'

  worth of mutton tallow.

  "That's the stuff," he told Saxon. "Clean foot-gear and the feet

  well greased. We'll put some on as soon as we're clear of town.

  An' we might as well go easy for a couple of days. Now, if I

  could get a little work so as you could rest up several days it'd

  be just the thing. I '11 keep my eye peeled."

  Almost on the outskirts of town he left Saxon on the county road

  and went up a long driveway to what appeared a large farm. He

  came back beaming.

  "It's all hunkydory," he called as he approached. "We'll just go

  down to that clump of trees by the creek an' pitch camp. I start

  work in the mornin', two dollars a day an' board myself. It'd

  been a dollar an' a half if he furnished the board. I told 'm I

  liked the other way best, an' that I had my camp with me. The

  weather's fine, an' we can make out a few days till your foot's

  in shape. Come on. We'll pitch a regular, decent camp."

  "How did you get the job," Saxon asked, as they cast about,

  determining their camp-site.

  "Wait till we get fixed an' I'll tell you all about it. It was a

  dream, a cinch."

  Not until the bed was spread, the fire built, and a pot of

  beans boiling did Billy throw down the last armful of wood and

  begin.

  "In the first place, Benson's no old-fashioned geezer. You

  wouldn't think he was a farmer to look at 'm. He's up to date,

  sharp as tacks, talks an' acts like a business man. I could see

  that, just by lookin' at his place, before I seen HIM. He took

  about fifteen seconds to size me up.

  "'Can you plow?' says he.

  "'Sure thing,' I told 'm.

  "'Know horses?'

  "'I was hatched in a box-stall,' says I.

  "An' just then--you remember that four-horse load of machinery

  that come in after me?--just then it drove up.

  "'How about four horses?' he asks, casual-like.

  "'Right to home. I can drive 'm to a plow, a sewin' machine, or a

  merry-go-round.'

  "'Jump up an' take them lines, then,' he says, quick an' sharp,

  not wastin' seconds. 'See that shed. Go 'round the barn to the

  right an' back in for unloadin'.'

  "An' right here I wanta tell you it was some nifty drivin' he was

  askin'. I could see by the tracks the wagons'd all ben goin'

  around the barn to the left. What he was askin' was too close

  work for comfort--a double turn, like an S, between a corner of a

  paddock an' around the corner of the barn to the last swing. An',

  to eat into the little room there was, there was piles of manure

  just thrown outa the barn an' not hauled away yet. But I wasn't

  lettin' on nothin'. The driver gave me the lines, an' I could see

  he was grinnin', sure I'd make a mess of it. I bet he couldn't

  a-done it himself. I never let on, an away we went, me not even

  knowin' the horses--but, say, if you'd seen me throw them leaders

  clean to the top of the manure till the nigh horse was scrapin'

  the side of the barn to make it, an' the off hind hub was cuttin'

  the corner post of the paddock to miss by six inches. It was the

  only way. An' them horses was sure beauts. The leaders slacked

  back an' darn near sat down on their singletrees when I threw the

  back into the wheelers an' slammed on the brake an' stopped on

  the very precise spot.

  "'You'll do,' Benson says. 'That was good

  work.'

  "'Aw, shucks,' I says, indifferent as hell. 'Gimme something real

  hard.'

  "He smiles an' understands.

  "'You done that well,' he says. 'An' I'm particular about who

  handles my horses. The road ain't no place for you. You must be a

  good man gone wrong. Just the same you can plow with my horses,

  startin' in to-morrow mornin'.'

  "Which shows how wise he wasn't. I hadn't showed I could plow."

  When Saxon had served the beans, and Billy the coffee, she stood

  still a moment and surveyed the spread meal on the blankets--the

  canister of sugar, the condensed milk tin, the sliced corned

  beef, the lettuce salad and sliced tomatoes, the slices of fresh

  French bread, and the steaming plates of beans and mugs of

  coffee.

  "What a difference from last night!" Saxon exclaimed, clapping

  her hands. "It's like an adventure out of a book. Oh, that boy I

  went fishing with! Think of that beautiful table and that

  beautiful house last night, and then look at this. Why, we could

  have lived a thousand years on end in Oakland and never met a

  woman like Mrs. Mortimer nor dreamed a house like hers existed.

  And, Billy, just to think, we've only just started."

  Billy worked for three days, and while insisting that he was

  doing very well, he freely admitted that there was more in

  plowing than he had thought. Saxon experienced quiet satisfaction

  when she learned he was enjoying it.

  "I never thought I'd like plowin'--much," he observed. "But it's

  fine. It's good for the leg-muscles, too. They don't get exercise

  enough in teamin'. If ever I trained for another fight, you bet

  I'd take a whack at plowin'. An', you know, the ground has a

  regular good smell to it, a-turnin' over an' turnin' over. Gosh,

  it's good enough to eat, that smell. An' it just goes on, turnin'

  up an' over, fresh an' thick an' good, all day long. An' the

  horses are Joe-dandies. They know their business as well as a

  man. That's one thing, Benson ain't got a scrub horse on the

  place."

  The last day Billy worked, the sky clouded over, the air grew

  damp, a strong wind began to blow from the southeast, and all the

  signs were present of the first winter rain. Billy came back in

  the evening with a small roll of old canvas he had borrowed,

  which he proceeded to arrange over their bed on a framework so as

  to shed rain. Several times he complained about the little finger

  of his left hand. It had been bothering him all day he told

  Saxon, for several days slightly, in fact, and it was as tender

  as a boil--most likely a splinter, but he had been unable to

  locate it.

  He went ahead with storm preparations, elevating the bed on old

  boards which he lugged from a disused barn falling to decay on

  the opposite bank of the creek. Upon the boards he heaped dry

  leaves for a mattress. He concluded by reinforcing the canvas

  with additional guys of odd pieces of rope and bailing-wire.

  When the first splashes of rain arrived Saxon was delighted.

  Billy betrayed little interest. His finger was hurting too much,

  he said. Neither he nor Saxon could make anything of it, and both

  scoffed at the idea of a felon.

  "It might be a run-around," Saxon hazarded.

  "What's that?"

  "I don't know. I remember Mrs. Cady had one once, but I was too

  small. It was the little finger, too. She poulticed it, I think.

  And I remember she dressed it with some kind of salve. It got

  awful bad, and finished by her losing the nail. After that it got

  well quick, and a new
nail grew out. Suppose I make a hot bread

  poultice for yours."

  Billy declined, being of the opinion that it would be better in

  the morning. Saxon was troubled, and as she dozed off she knew

  that he was lying restlessly wide awake. A few minutes afterward,

  roused by a heavy blast of wind and rain on the canvas, she heard

  Billy softly groaning. She raised herself on her elbow and with

  her free hand, in the way she knew, manipulating his forehead and

  the surfaces around his eyes, soothed him off to sleep.

  Again she slept. And again she was aroused, this time not by the

  storm, but by Billy. She could not see, but by feeling she

  ascertained his strange position. He was outside the blankets and

  on his knees, his forehead resting on the boards, his shoulders

  writhing with suppressed anguish.

  "She's pulsin' to beat the band," he said, when she spoke. "It's

  worsen a thousand toothaches. But it ain't nothin' . . . if only

  the canvas don't blow down. Think what our folks had to stand,"

  he gritted out between groans. "Why, my father was out in the

  mountains, an' the man with 'm got mauled by a grizzly--clean

  clawed to the bones all over. An' they was outa grub an' had to

  travel. Two times outa three, when my father put 'm on the horse,

  he'd faint away. Had to be tied on. An' that lasted five weeks,

  an' HE pulled through. Then there was Jack Quigley. He blowed off

  his whole right hand with the burstin' of his shotgun, an' the

  huntin' dog pup he had with 'm ate up three of the fingers. An'

  he was all alone in the marsh, an'--"

  But Saxon heard no more of the adventures of Jack Quigley. A

  terrific blast of wind parted several of the guys, collapsed the

  framework, and for a moment buried them under the canvas. The

  next moment canvas, framework, and trailing guys were whisked

  away into the darkness, and Saxon and Billy were deluged with

  rain.

  "Only one thing to do," he yelled in her ear. "--Gather up the

  things an' get into that old barn."

  They accomplished this in the drenching darkness, making two

  trips across the stepping stones of the shallow creek and soaking

  themselves to the knees. The old barn leaked like a sieve, but

  they managed to find a dry space on which to spread their

  anything but dry bedding. Billy's pain was heart-rending to

  Saxon. An hour was required to subdue him to a doze, and only by

  continuously stroking his forehead could she keep him asleep.

  Shivering and miserable, she accepted a night of wakefulness

  gladly with the knowledge that she kept him from knowing the

  worst of his pain.

  At the time when she had decided it must be past midnight, there

  was an interruption. From the open doorway came a flash of

  electric light, like a tiny searchlight, which quested about the

  barn and came to rest on her and Billy. From the source of light

  a harsh voice said:

  "Ah! ha! I've got you! Come out of that!"

  Billy sat up, his eyes dazzled by the light. The voice behind the

  light was approaching and reiterating its demand that they come

  out of that.

  "What's up?" Billy asked.

  "Me," was the answer; "an' wide awake, you bet."

  The voice was now beside them, scarcely a yard away, yet they

  could see nothing on account of the light, which was

  intermittent, frequently going out for an instant as the

  operator's thumb tired on the switch.

  "Come on, get a move on," the voice went on. "Roll up your

  blankets an' trot along. I want you."

  "Who in hell are you?" Billy demanded.

  "I'm the constable. Come on."

  "Well, what do you want?"

  "You, of course, the pair of you."

  "What for?"

  "Vagrancy. Now hustle. I ain't goin' to loaf here all night."

  "Aw, chase yourself," Billy advised. "I ain't a vag. I'm a

  workingman."

  "Maybe you are an' maybe you ain't," said the constable; "but you

  can tell all that to Judge Neusbaumer in the mornin'."