The Little Lady of the Big House E-Book

Jack London

• Herausgeber: ShadowPOET
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

He awoke in the dark. His awakening was simple, easy, without movement save for the eyes that opened and made him aware of darkness. Unlike most, who must feel and grope and listen to, and contact with, the world about them, he knew himself on the moment of awakening, instantly identifying himself in time and place and personality. After the lapsed hours of sleep he took up, without effort, the interrupted tale of his days. He knew himself to be Dick Forrest, the master of broad acres, who had fallen asleep hours before after drowsily putting a match between the pages of “Road Town” and pressing off the electric reading lamp.

Leseprobe

TheLittleLadyoftheBigHouse

ByJackLondon

Publisher: ShadowPOET

THELITTLELADYOFTHEBIGHOUSECHAPTER I

He awoke in the dark. His awakening was simple, easy, without movementsave for the eyes that opened and made him aware of darkness. Unlike most,who must feel and grope and listen to, and contact with, the world about them,he knew himself on the moment of awakening, instantly identifying himself intime and place and personality. After the lapsed hours of sleep he took up,without effort, the interrupted tale of his days. He knew himself to be DickForrest, the master of broad acres, who had fallen asleep hours before afterdrowsily putting a match between the pages of “Road Town” and pressing offtheelectricreadinglamp.

Nearathandtherewastherippleandgurgleofsomesleepyfountain.Fromfaroff, so faint and far that only a keen ear could catch, he heard a sound thatmadehimsmilewithpleasure.Heknewitforthedistant,throatybawlofKingPolo—¬King Polo, his champion Short Horn bull, thrice Grand Championalso of all bulls at Sacramento at the California State Fairs. The smile wasslowineasingfromDickForrest’sface,forhedweltamomentonthenew

triumphs he had destined that year for King Polo on the Eastern livestockcircuits. He would show them that a bull, California born and finished, couldcompete with the cream of bulls corn-fed in Iowa or imported overseas fromtheimmemorialhomeofShortHorns.

Not until the smile faded, which was a matter of seconds, did he reach out inthe dark and press the first of a row of buttons. There were three rows of suchbuttons. The concealed lighting that spilled from the huge bowl under theceilingrevealedasleeping-porch,threesidesofwhichwerefine-meshedcopper screen. The fourth side was the house wall, solid concrete, throughwhichFrenchwindowsgaveaccess.

He pressed the second button in the row and the bright light concentered at aparticularplaceontheconcretewall,illuminating,inarow,aclock,abarometer, and centigrade and Fahrenheit thermometers. Almost in a sweep ofglance he read the messages of the dials: time 4:30; air pressure, 29:80, whichwas normal at that altitude and season; and temperature, Fahrenheit, 36°. Withanother press, the gauges of time and heat and air were sent back into thedarkness.

A third button turned on his reading lamp, so arranged that the light fell fromabove and behind without shining into his eyes. The first button turned off theconcealedlightingoverhead.Hereachedamassofproofsheetsfromthereadingstand,and,pencilinhand,lightingacigarette,hebegantocorrect.

The place was clearly the sleeping quarters of a man who worked. Efficiencywas its key note, though comfort, not altogether Spartan, was also manifest.The bed was of gray enameled iron to tone with the concrete wall. Across thefootofthebed,anextracoverlet,hungagrayrobeofwolfskinswitheverytaila-dangle. On the floor, where rested a pair of slippers, was spread a thick-coatedskinofmountaingoat.

Heaped orderly with books, magazines and scribble-pads, there was room onthebigreadingstandformatches,cigarettes,anash-tray,andathermosbottle.A phonograph, for purposes of dictation, stood on a hinged and swingingbracket. On the wall, under the barometer and thermometers, from a roundwooden frame laughed the face of a girl. On the wall, between the rows ofbuttons and a switchboard, from an open holster, loosely projected the butt ofa.44Colt’sautomatic.

At six o’clock, sharp, after gray light had begun to filter through the wirenetting, Dick Forrest, without raising his eyes from the proofsheets, reachedout his right hand and pressed a button in the second row. Five minutes later asoft-slippered Chinese emerged on the sleeping-porch. In his hands he bore asmall tray of burnished copper on which rested a cup and saucer, a tiny coffeepotofsilver,andacorrespondinglytinysilvercreampitcher.

“Goodmorning,OhMy,”wasDickForrest’sgreeting,andhiseyessmiledandhislipssmiledasheutteredit.

“Good morning, Master,” Oh My returned, as he busied himself with makingroomonthereadingstandforthetrayandwithpouringthecoffeeandcream.

This done, without waiting further orders, noting that his master was alreadysipping coffee with one hand while he made a correction on the proof with theother, Oh My picked up a rosy, filmy, lacy boudoir cap from the floor anddeparted. His exit was noiseless. He ebbed away like a shadow through theopenFrenchwindows.

At six-thirty, sharp to the minute, he was back with a larger tray. Dick Forrestput away the proofs, reached for a book entitled “Commercial Breeding ofFrogs,”andpreparedtoeat.Thebreakfastwassimpleyetfairlysubstantial—

¬more coffee, a half grape-fruit, two soft-boiled eggs made ready in a glasswith a dab of butter and piping hot, and a sliver of bacon, not over-cooked,thatheknewwasofhisownraisingandcuring.

By this time the sunshine was pouring in through the screening and across thebed. On the outside of the wire screen clung a number of house-flies, early-hatched for the season and numb with the night’s cold. As Forrest ate hewatched the hunting of the meat-eating yellow-jackets. Sturdy, more frost-resistantthanbees,theywerealreadyonthewingandpreyingonthebenumbed flies. Despite the rowdy noise of their flight, these yellow huntersof the air, with rarely ever a miss, pounced on their helpless victims and sailedaway with them. The last fly was gone ere Forrest had sipped his last sip ofcoffee, marked “Commercial Breeding of Frogs” with a match, and taken uphisproofsheets.

Afteratime,theliquid-mellowcryofthemeadow-lark,firstvocalfortheday,caused him to desist. He looked at the clock. It marked seven. He set aside theproofsandbeganaseriesofconversationsbymeansoftheswitchboard,whichhemanipulatedwithapracticedhand.

“Hello, Oh Joy,” was his first talk. “Is Mr. Thayer up?... Very well. Don’tdisturb him. I don’t think he’ll breakfast in bed, but find out.... That’s right,andshowhimhowtoworkthehotwater.Maybehedoesn’tknow...Yes,that’sright. Plan for one more boy as soon as you can get him. There’s always acrowd when the good weather comes on.... Sure. Use your judgment. Good-by.”

“Mr. Hanley?... Yes,” was his second conversation, over another switch. “I’vebeen thinking about the dam on the Buckeye. I want the figures on the gravel-haul and on the rock-crushing.... Yes, that’s it. I imagine that the gravel-haulwill cost anywhere between six and ten cents a yard more than the crushedrock.Thatlastpitchofhilliswhateatsupthegravel-teams.Workoutthe

figures. ... No, we won’t be able to start for a fortnight. ... Yes, yes; the newtractors, if they ever deliver, will release the horses from the plowing, butthey’ll have to go back for the checking.... No, you’ll have to see Mr. Everanaboutthat.Good-by.”

Andhisthirdcall:

“Mr. Dawson? Ha! Ha! Thirty-six on my porch right now. It must be whitewithfrostdownonthelevels.Butit’smostlikelythelastthisyear Yes,they

swore the tractors would be delivered two days ago.... Call up the stationagent. ... By the way, you catch Hanley for me. I forgot to tell him to start the‘rat-catchers’ out with the second instalment of fly-traps.... Yes, pronto. Therewereacoupleofdozenroostingonmyscreenthismorning....Yes Good-

by.”

At this stage, Forrest slid out of bed in his pajamas, slipped his feet into theslippers, and strode through the French windows to the bath, already drawn byOh My. A dozen minutes afterward, shaved as well, he was back in bed,readinghisfrogbookwhileOhMy,punctualtotheminute,massagedhislegs.

Theywerethewell-formedlegsofawell-built,five-foot-tenmanwhoweighedahundredandeightypounds.Further,theytoldataleoftheman.Theleftthighwasmarredbyascarteninchesinlength.Acrosstheleftankle,frominstep to heel, were scattered half a dozen scars the size of half-dollars. WhenOh My prodded and pulled the left knee a shade too severely, Forrest wasguilty of a wince. The right shin was colored with several dark scars, while abigscar,justundertheknee,wasapositivedentinthebone.Midwaybetweenknee and groin was the mark of an ancient three-inch gash, curiously dottedwiththeminutescarsofstitches.

A sudden, joyous nicker from without put the match between the pages of thefrog book, and, while Oh My proceeded partly to dress his master in bed,including socks and shoes, the master, twisting partly on his side, stared out inthe direction of the nicker. Down the road, through the swaying purple of theearly lilacs, ridden by a picturesque cowboy, paced a great horse, glintingruddy in the morning sun-gold, flinging free the snowy foam of his mightyfetlocks,hisnoblecresttossing,hiseyesrovingafield,thetrumpetofhislove-callechoingthroughthespringingland.

DickForrestwassmittenatthesameinstantwithjoyandanxiety—¬joyintheglorious beast pacing down between the lilac hedges; anxiety in that thestallion might have awakened the girl who laughed from the round woodenframeonhiswall.Heglancedquicklyacrossthetwo-hundred-footcourttothelong, shadowy jut of her wing of the house. The shades of her sleeping-porchwere down. They did not stir. Again the stallion nickered, and all that movedwasaflockofwildcanaries,upspringingfromtheflowersandshrubsofthe

court,risinglikeagreen-goldsprayoflightflungfromthesunrise.

He watched the stallion out of sight through the lilacs, seeing visions of fairShire colts mighty of bone and frame and free from blemish, then turned, aseverheturnedtotheimmediatething,andspoketohisbodyservant.

“How’sthatlastboy,OhMy?Showingup?”

“Him pretty good boy, I think,” was the answer. “Him young boy. Everythingnew.Prettyslow.Allthesamebimebyhimshowupgood.”

“Why?Whatmakesyouthinkso?”

“I call him three, four morning now. Him sleep like baby. Him wake upsmilingjustlikeyou.Thatverygood.”

“DoIwakeupsmiling?”Forrestqueried.OhMynoddedhisheadviolently.

“Manytimes,manyyears,Icallyou.Alwaysyoureyesopen,youreyessmile,yourmouthsmile,yourfacesmile,yousmileallover,justlikethat,rightawayquick. That very good. A man wake up that way got plenty good sense. Iknow. This new boy like that. Bime by, pretty soon, he make fine boy. Yousee.HisnameChowGam.Whatnameyoucallhimthisplace?”

DickForrestmeditated.

“Whatnameshavewealready?”heasked.

“OhJoy,AhWell,AhMe,andme;IamOhMy,”theChineserattledoff.“OhJoyhimsaycallnewboy—¬”

He hesitated and stared at his master with a challenging glint of eye. Forrestnodded.

“OhJoyhimsaycallnewboy‘OhHell.’”

“Oh ho!” Forrest laughed in appreciation. “Oh Joy is a josher. A good name,butitwon’tdo.ThereistheMissus.We’vegottothinkanothername.”

“OhHo,thatverygoodname.”

Forrest’sexclamationwasstillringinginhisconsciousnesssothatherecognizedthesourceofOhMy’sinspiration.

“Verywell.Theboy’snameisOhHo.”

Oh My lowered his head, ebbed swiftly through the French windows, and asswiftlyreturnedwiththerestofForrest’sclothes-gear,helpinghimintoundershirtandshirt,tossingatiearoundhisneckforhimtoknot,and,kneeling, putting on his leggings and spurs. A Baden Powell hat and a quirtcompleted his appareling—¬the quirt, Indian-braided of rawhide, with tenouncesofleadbraidedintothebuttthathungfromhiswristonaloopof

leather.

But Forrest was not yet free. Oh My handed him several letters, with theexplanation that they had come up from the station the previous night afterForrest had gone to bed. He tore the right-hand ends across and glanced at thecontentsofallbutonewithspeed.Thelatterhedweltuponforamoment,with an irritated indrawing of brows, then swung out the phonograph from thewall, pressed the button that made the cylinder revolve, and swiftly dictated,withouteverapauseforwordoridea:

“In reply to yours of March 14, 1914, I am indeed sorry to learn that you werehit with hog cholera. I am equally sorry that you have seen fit to charge mewith the responsibility. And just as equally am I sorry that the boar we sentyouisdead.

“Icanonlyassureyouthatwearequiteclearofcholerahere,andthatwehavebeenclearofcholeraforeightyears,withtheexceptionoftwoEasternimportations, the last two years ago, both of which, according to our custom,were segregated on arrival and were destroyed before the contagion could becommunicatedtoourherds.

“I feel that I must inform you that in neither case did I charge the sellers withhaving sent me diseased stock. On the contrary, as you should know, theincubation of hog cholera being nine days, I consulted the shipping dates oftheanimalsandknewthattheyhadbeenhealthywhenshipped.

“Hasiteverenteredyourmindthattherailroadsarelargelyresponsibleforthespread of cholera? Did you ever hear of a railroad fumigating or disinfecting acar which had carried cholera? Consult the dates: First, of shipment by me;second,ofreceiptoftheboarbyyou;and,third,ofappearanceofsymptomsinthe boar. As you say, because of washouts, the boar was five days on the way.Not until the seventh day after you receipted for same did the first symptomsappear.Thatmakestwelvedaysafteritleftmyhands.

“No; I must disagree with you. I am not responsible for the disaster thatovertook your herd. Furthermore, doubly to assure you, write to the StateVeterinaryastowhetherornotmyplaceisfreeofcholera.

“Verytrulyyours...”

CHAPTERII

When Forrest went through the French windows from his sleeping-porch, hecrossed, first, a comfortable dressing room, window-divaned, many-lockered,withagenerousfireplace,outofwhichopenedabathroom;and,second,a

long office room, wherein was all the paraphernalia of business—¬desks,dictaphones,filingcabinets,bookcases,magazinefiles,anddrawer-pigeonholesthattieredtothelow,beamedceiling.

Midwayintheofficeroom,hepressedabuttonandaseriesofbook-freightened shelves swung on a pivot, revealing a tiny spiral stairway of steel,which he descended with care that his spurs might not catch, the bookshelvesswingingintoplacebehindhim.

At the foot of the stairway, a press on another button pivoted more shelves ofbooks and gave him entrance into a long low room shelved with books fromfloor to ceiling. He went directly to a case, directly to a shelf, and unerringlylaid his hand on the book he sought. A minute he ran the pages, found thepassage he was after, nodded his head to himself in vindication, and replacedthebook.

A door gave way to a pergola of square concrete columns spanned withredwood logs and interlaced with smaller trunks of redwood, all rough andcrinkledvelvetwiththeruddypurpleofthebark.

It was evident, since he had to skirt several hundred feet of concrete walls ofwanderinghouse,thathehadnottakentheshortwayout.Underwide-spreading ancient oaks, where the long hitching-rails, bark-chewed, and thehoof-beaten gravel showed the stamping place of many horses, he found apale-golden, almost tan-golden, sorrel mare. Her well-groomed spring coatwas alive and flaming in the morning sun that slanted straight under the edgeof the roof of trees. She was herself alive and flaming. She was built like astallion, and down her backbone ran a narrow dark strip of hair that advertisedanancestryofmanyrangemustangs.

“How’stheMan-Eaterthismorning?”hequeried,asheunsnappedthetie-ropefromherthroat.

She laid back the tiniest ears that ever a horse possessed—¬ears that told ofsomethoroughbred’swildloveswithwildmaresamongthehills—¬andsnappedatForrestwithwickedteethandwicked-gleamingeyes.

She sidled and attempted to rear as he swung into the saddle, and, sidling andattempting to rear, she went off down the graveled road. And rear she wouldhave, had it not been for the martingale that held her head down and that, aswell,savedtherider’snosefromherangry-tossinghead.

Sousedwashetothemare,thathewasscarcelyawareofherantics.Automatically, with slightest touch of rein against arched neck, or with tickleof spur or press of knee, he kept the mare to the way he willed. Once, as shewhirled and danced, he caught a glimpse of the Big House. Big it was in allseeming, and yet, such was the vagrant nature of it, it was not so big as itseemed.Eighthundredfeetacrossthefrontface,itstretched.Butmuchofthis

eight hundred feet was composed of mere corridors, concrete-walled, tile-roofed, that connected and assembled the various parts of the building. Therewere patios and pergolas in proportion, and all the walls, with their manyright-angledjutsandrecessions,aroseoutofabedofgreeneryandbloom.

Spanishincharacter,thearchitectureoftheBigHousewasnotoftheCalifornia-SpanishtypewhichhadbeenintroducedbywayofMexicoahundred years before, and which had been modified by modern architects totheCalifornia-Spanisharchitectureoftheday.Hispano-Moresquemoretechnically classified the Big House in all its hybridness, although there wereexpertswhoheatedlyquarreledwiththeterm.

Spaciousnesswithoutausterityandbeautywithoutostentationwerethefundamental impressions the Big House gave. Its lines, long and horizontal,broken only by lines that were vertical and by the lines of juts and recessesthat were always right-angled, were as chaste as those of a monastery. Theirregularroof-line,however,relievedthehintofmonotony.

Low and rambling, without being squat, the square upthrusts of towers and oftowers over-topping towers gave just proportion of height without being sky-aspiring. The sense of the Big House was solidarity. It defied earthquakes. Itwas planted for a thousand years. The honest concrete was overlaid by acream-stuccoofhonestcement.Again,thisverysamenessofcolormighthaveproved monotonous to the eye had it not been saved by the many flat roofs ofwarm-redSpanishtile.

In that one sweeping glance while the mare whirled unduly, Dick Forrest’seyes,embracingalloftheBigHouse,centeredforaquicksolicitousinstantonthegreatwingacrossthetwo-hundred-footcourt,where,underclimbinggroups of towers, red-snooded in the morning sun, the drawn shades of thesleeping-porchtokenedthathisladystillslept.

About him, for three quadrants of the circle of the world, arose low-rollinghills, smooth, fenced, cropped, and pastured, that melted into higher hills andsteeper wooded slopes that merged upward, steeper, into mighty mountains.The fourth quadrant was unbounded by mountain walls and hills. It fadedaway,descendingeasilytovastfarflatlands,which,despitetheclearbrittleairoffrost,weretoovastandfartoscanacross.

The mare under him snorted. His knees tightened as he straightened her intothe road and forced her to one side. Down upon him, with a pattering of feeton the gravel, flowed a river of white shimmering silk. He knew it at sight forhis prize herd of Angora goats, each with a pedigree, each with a history.There had to be a near two hundred of them, and he knew, according to therigorous selection he commanded, not having been clipped in the fall, that theshiningmohairdrapingthesidesoftheleastofthem,asfineasanyhuman

new-born baby’s hair and finer, as white as any human albino’s thatch andwhiter, was longer than the twelve-inch staple, and that the mohair of the bestofthemwoulddyeanycolorintotwenty-inchswitchesforwomen’sheadsandsellatpricesunreasonableandprofound.

The beauty of the sight held him as well. The roadway had become a flowingribbon of silk, gemmed with yellow cat-like eyes that floated past wary andcurious in their regard for him and his nervous horse. Two Basque herdersbrought up the rear. They were short, broad, swarthy men, black-eyed, vivid-faced, contemplative and philosophic of expression. They pulled off their hatsand ducked their heads to him. Forrest lifted his right hand, the quirt danglingfrom wrist, the straight forefinger touching the rim of his Baden Powell insemi-militarysalute.

The mare, prancing and whirling again, he held her with a touch of rein andthreat of spur, and gazed after the four-footed silk that filled the road withshimmering white. He knew the significance of their presence. The time forkidding was approaching and they were being brought down from their brush-pastures to the brood-pens and shelters for jealous care and generous feedthroughtheperiodofincrease.Andashegazed,inhismind,comparing,wasavision of all the best of Turkish and South African mohair he had ever seen,andhisflockborethecomparisonwell.Itlookedgood.Itlookedverygood.

Herodeon.Fromallaboutarosetheclackingwhirofmanure-spreaders.Inthe distance, on the low, easy-sloping hills, he saw team after team, and manyteams, three to a team abreast, what he knew were his Shire mares, drawingthe plows back and forth across, contour-plowing, turning the green sod of thehillsides to the rich dark brown of humus-filled earth so organic and friablethat it would almost melt by gravity into fine-particled seed-bed. That was forthe corn—¬and sorghum-planting for his silos. Other hill-slopes, in the duecourse of his rotation, were knee-high in barley; and still other slopes wereshowingthegoodgreenofburrcloverandCanadapea.

Everywhere about him, large fields and small were arranged in a system ofaccessibility and workability that would have warmed the heart of the mostmeticulous efficiency-expert. Every fence was hog-tight and bull-proof, andno weeds grew in the shelters of the fences. Many of the level fields were inalfalfa. Others, following the rotations, bore crops planted the previous fall, orwere in preparation for the spring-planting. Still others, close to the broodbarns and pens, were being grazed by rotund Shropshire and French-Merinoewes, or were being hogged off by white Gargantuan brood-sows that broughtaflashofpleasureinhiseyesasherodepastandgazed.

He rode through what was almost a village, save that there were neither shopsnor hotels. The houses were bungalows, substantial, pleasing to the eye, eachsetinthemidstofgardenswherestouterblooms,includingroses,wereout

andsmilingatthethreatoflatefrost.Childrenwerealreadyastir,laughingandplayingamongtheflowersorbeingcalledintobreakfastbytheirmothers.

Beyond, beginning at a half-mile distant to circle the Big House, he passed arow of shops. He paused at the first and glanced in. One smith was working ata forge. A second smith, a shoe fresh-nailed on the fore-foot of an elderlyShire mare that would disturb the scales at eighteen hundred weight, wasrasping down the outer wall of the hoof to smooth with the toe of the shoe.Forrestsaw,saluted,rodeon,and,ahundredfeetaway,pausedandscribbledamemoranduminthenotebookhedrewfromhiship-pocket.

He passed other shops—¬a paint-shop, a wagon-shop, a plumbing shop, acarpenter-shop.Whileheglancedatthelast,ahybridmachine,half-auto,half-truck, passed him at speed and took the main road for the railroad station eightmiles away. He knew it for the morning butter-truck freighting from theseparatorhousethedailyoutputofthedairy.

The Big House was the hub of the ranch organization. Half a mile from it, itwas encircled by the various ranch centers. Dick Forrest, saluting continuallyhis people, passed at a gallop the dairy center, which was almost a sea ofbuildings with batteries of silos and with litter carriers emerging on overheadtracksandautomaticallydumpingintowaitingmanure-spreaders.Severaltimes, business-looking men, college-marked, astride horses or driving carts,stoppedhimandconferredwithhim.Theywereforemen,headsofdepartments, and they were as brief and to the point as was he. The last ofthem,astrideaPalominathree-year-oldthatwasasgracefulandwildasahalf-broken Arab, was for riding by with a bare salute, but was stopped by hisemployer.

“Good morning, Mr. Hennessy, and how soon will she be ready for Mrs.Forrest?”DickForrestasked.

“I’d like another week,” was Hennessy’s answer. “She’s well broke now, justthe way Mrs. Forrest wanted, but she’s over-strung and sensitive and I’d liketheweekmoretosetherinherways.”

Forrestnoddedconcurrence,andHennessy,whowastheveterinary,wenton:“There are two drivers in the alfalfa gang I’d like to send down the hill.”“What’sthematterwiththem?”

“One,anewman,Hopkins,isanex-soldier.Hemayknowgovernmentmules,buthedoesn’tknowShires.”

Forrestnodded.

“Theotherhasworkedforustwoyears,buthe’sdrinkingnow,andhetakeshishang-oversoutonhishorses—¬”

“That’sSmith,old-typeAmerican,smooth-shaven,withacastinhislefteye?”Forrestinterrupted.

Theveterinarynodded.

“I’vebeenwatchinghim,”Forrestconcluded.“Hewasagoodmanatfirst,buthe’s slipped a cog recently. Sure, send him down the hill. And send that otherfellow—¬Hopkins, you said?—¬along with him. By the way, Mr. Hennessy.”As he spoke, Forrest drew forth his pad book, tore off the last note scribbled,andcrumpleditinhishand.“You’veanewhorse-shoerintheshop.Howdoeshestrikeyou?”

“He’stoonewtomakeupmymindyet.”

“Well, send him down the hill along with the other two. He can’t take yourorders. I observed him just now fitting a shoe to old Alden Bessie by raspingoffhalfaninchofthetoeofherhoof.”

“Heknewbetter.”

“Send him down the hill,” Forrest repeated, as he tickled his champing mountwith the slightest of spur-tickles and shot her out along the road, sidling, head-tossing,andattemptingtorear.

Much he saw that pleased him. Once, he murmured aloud, “A fat land, a fatland.” Divers things he saw that did not please him and that won a note in hisscribblepad.CompletingthecircleabouttheBigHouseandridingbeyondthecircle half a mile to an isolated group of sheds and corrals, he reached theobjective of the ride: the hospital. Here he found but two young heifers beingtested for tuberculosis, and a magnificent Duroc Jersey boar in magnificentcondition.Weighingfullysixhundredpounds,itsbrighteyes,briskmovements, and sheen of hair shouted out that there was nothing the matterwithit.Nevertheless,accordingtotheranchpractice,beingafreshimportation from Iowa, it was undergoing the regular period of quarantine.Burgess Premier was its name in the herd books of the association, age twoyears,andithadcostForrestfivehundreddollarslaiddownontheranch.

Proceeding at a hand gallop along a road that was one of the spokes radiatingfrom the Big House hub, Forrest overtook Crellin, his hog manager, and, in afive-minute conference, outlined the next few months of destiny of BurgessPremier, and learned that the brood sow, Lady Isleton, the matron of allmatrons of the O. I. C.’s and blue-ribboner in all shows from Seattle to SanDiego, was safely farrowed of eleven. Crellin explained that he had sat up halfthenightwithherandwasthenboundhomeforbathandbreakfast.

“I hear your oldest daughter has finished high school and wants to enterStanford,”Forrestsaid,curbingthemarejustashehadhalf-signaleddepartureatagallop.

Crellin, a young man of thirty-five, with the maturity of a long-time fatherstamped upon him along with the marks of college and the youthfulness of aman used to the open air and straight-living, showed his appreciation of hisemployer’sinterestashehalf-flushedunderhistanandnodded.

“Thinkitover,”Forrestadvised.“Makeastatisticofallthecollegegirls—

¬yes, and State Normal girls—¬you know. How many of them follow career,and how many of them marry within two years after their degrees and take tobabyfarming.”

“Helenisveryseriouslybentonthematter,”Crellinurged.

“Do you remember when I had my appendix out?” Forrest queried. “Well, Ihad as fine a nurse as I ever saw and as nice a girl as ever walked on two nicelegs.Shewasjustsixmonthsafull-fledgednurse,then.Andfourmonthsafterthat I had to send her a wedding present. She married an automobile agent.She’s lived in hotels ever since. She’s never had a chance to nurse—¬never achild of her own to bring through a bout with colic. But... she has hopes... and,whether or not her hopes materialize, she’s confoundedly happy. But... whatgoodwashernursingapprenticeship?”

Just then an empty manure-spreader passed, forcing Crellin, on foot, andForrest, on his mare, to edge over to the side of the road. Forrest glanced withkindling eye at the off mare of the machine, a huge, symmetrical Shire whoseownblueribbons,andtheblueribbonsofherprogeny,wouldhaverequiredanexpertaccountanttoenumerateandclassify.

“Look at the Fotherington Princess,” Forrest said, nodding at the mare thatwarmedhiseye.“Sheisanormalfemale.Onlyincidentally,throughthousands of years of domestic selection, has man evolved her into a draughtbeast breeding true to kind. But being a draught-beast is secondary. Primarilyshe is a female. Take them by and large, our own human females, above allelse,loveusmenandareintrinsicallymaternal.Thereisnobiologicalsanctionforallthehurlyburlyofwomanto-dayforsuffrageandcareer.”

“Butthereisaneconomicsanction,”Crellinobjected.

“True,”hisemployeragreed,thenproceededtodiscount.“Ourpresentindustrialsystempreventsmarriageandcompelswomantocareer.But,remember, industrial systems come, and industrial systems go, while biologyrunsonforever.”

“It’s rather hard to satisfy young women with marriage these days,” the hog-managerdemurred.

DickForrestlaughedincredulously.

“I don’t know about that,” he said. “There’s your wife for an instance. Shewithhersheepskin—¬classicalscholaratthat—¬well,whathasshedonewith

it?... Two boys and three girls, I believe? As I remember your telling me, shewasengagedtoyouthewholelasthalfofhersenioryear.”

“True, but—¬” Crellin insisted, with an eye-twinkle of appreciation of thepoint, “that was fifteen years ago, as well as a love-match. We just couldn’thelp it. That far, I agree. She had planned unheard-of achievements, while Isaw nothing else than the deanship of the College of Agriculture. We justcouldn’thelpit.Butthatwasfifteenyearsago,andfifteenyearshavemadeallthedifferenceintheworldintheambitionsandidealsofouryoungwomen.”

“Don’t you believe it for a moment. I tell you, Mr. Crellin, it’s a statistic. Allcontrarythingsaretransient.EverwomanremainsAvoman,everlasting,eternal. Not until our girl-children cease from playing with dolls and fromlooking at their own enticingness in mirrors, will woman ever be otherwisethanwhatshehasalwaysbeen:first,themother,second,themateofman.Itisa statistic. I’ve been looking up the girls who graduate from the State Normal.Youwillnoticethatthosewhomarrybythewaybeforegraduationareexcluded.Nevertheless,theaveragelengthoftimethegraduatesactuallyteachschool is little more than two years. And when you consider that a lot of them,throughilllooksandillluck,areforedoomedoldmaidsandareforedoomedtoteach all their lives, you can see how they cut down the period of teaching ofthemarriageableones.”

“A woman,evenagirl-woman,willhaveherwaywheremeremenareconcerned,” Crellin muttered, unable to dispute his employer’s figures butresolvedtolookthemup.

“Andyourgirl-womanwillgotoStanford,”Forrestlaughed,ashepreparedtolift his mare into a gallop, “and you and I and all men, to the end of time, willseetoitthattheydohavetheirway.”

Crellin smiled to himself as his employer diminished down the road; forCrellin knew his Kipling, and the thought that caused the smile was: “Butwhere’s the kid of your own, Mr. Forrest?” He decided to repeat it to Mrs.Crellinoverthebreakfastcoffee.

Once again Dick Forrest delayed ere he gained the Big House. The man hestopped he addressed as Mendenhall, who was his horse-manager as well aspastureexpert,andwhowasreputedtoknow,notonlyeverybladeofgrassonthe ranch, but the length of every blade of grass and its age from seed-germinationaswell.

At signal from Forrest, Mendenhall drew up the two colts he was driving in adouble breaking-cart. What had caused Forrest to signal was a glance he hadcaught, across the northern edge of the valley, of great, smooth-hill rangesmiles beyond, touched by the sun and deeply green where they projected intothevastflatoftheSacramentoValley.

The talk that followed was quick and abbreviated to terms of understandingbetween two men who knew. Grass was the subject. Mention was made of thewinterrainfallandofthechanceforlatespringrainstocome.Namesoccurred, such as the Little Coyote and Los Cuatos creeks, the Yolo and theMiramar hills, the Big Basin, Round Valley, and the San Anselmo and LosBanos ranges. Movements of herds and droves, past, present, and to come,were discussed, as well as the outlook for cultivated hay in far upland pasturesand the estimates of such hay that still remained over the winter in remotebarns in the sheltered mountain valleys where herds had wintered and beenfed.

Under the oaks, at the stamping posts, Forrest was saved the trouble of tyingthe Man-Eater. A stableman came on the run to take the mare, and Forrest,scarce pausing for a word about a horse by the name of Duddy, was clankinghisspursintotheBigHouse.

CHAPTERIII

Forrest entered a section of the Big House by way of a massive, hewn-timber,iron-studded door that let in at the foot of what seemed a donjon keep. Thefloor was cement, and doors let off in various directions. One, opening to aChineseinthewhiteapronandstarchedcapofachef,emittedatthesametime the low hum of a dynamo. It was this that deflected Forrest from hisstraightpath.Hepaused,holdingthedoorajar,andpeeredintoacool,electric-lightedcementroomwherestoodalong,glass-fronted,glass-shelvedrefrigerator flanked by an ice-machine and a dynamo. On the floor, in greasyoveralls,squattedagreasylittlemantowhomhisemployernodded.

“Anythingwrong,Thompson?”heasked.

“Therewas,"wastheanswer,positiveandcomplete.

Forrest closed the door and went on along a passage that was like a tunnel.Narrow, iron-barred openings, like the slits for archers in medieval castles,dimly lighted the way. Another door gave access to a long, low room, beam-ceilinged, with a fireplace in which an ox could have been roasted. A hugestump, resting on a bed of coals, blazed brightly. Two billiard tables, severalcardtables,loungingcorners,andaminiaturebarconstitutedthemajorfurnishing.TwoyoungmenchalkedtheircuesandreturnedForrest’sgreeting.

“Goodmorning,Mr.Naismith,”hebantered.“—¬MorematerialfortheBreeders’Gazette?"

Naismith,ayoungishmanofthirty,withglasses,smiledsheepishlyandcockedhisheadathiscompanion.

“Wainwrightchallengedme,”heexplained.

“Which means that Lute and Ernestine must still be beauty-sleeping,” Forrestlaughed.

YoungWainwrightbristledtoacceptanceofthechallenge,butbeforehecouldutter the retort on his lips his host was moving on and addressing Naismithoverhisshoulder.

“Do you want to come along at eleven:thirty? Thayer and I are running out inthe machine to look over the Shropshires. He wants about ten carloads oframs. You ought to find good stuff in this matter of Idaho shipments. Bringyourcameraalong.—¬SeenThayerthismorning?”

“Justcameintobreakfastaswewereleaving,”BertWainwrightvolunteered.

“Tellhimtobereadyateleven-thirtyifyouseehim.You’renotinvited,Bert...outofkindness.Thegirlsaresuretobeupthen.”

“TakeRitaalongwithyouanyway,”Bertpleaded.

“Nofear,”wasForrest’sreplyfromthedoor.“We’reonbusiness.Besides,youcan’tpryRitafromErnestinewithblock-and-tackle.”

“That’swhyIwantedtoseeifyoucould,”Bertgrinned.

“Funny how fellows never appreciate their own sisters.” Forrest paused for aperceptible moment. “I always thought Rita was a real nice sister. What’s thematterwithher?”

Before a reply could reach him, he had closed the door and was jingling hisspurs along the passage to a spiral stairway of broad concrete steps. As he leftthe head of the stairway, a dance-time piano measure and burst of laughtermade him peep into a white morning room, flooded with sunshine. A younggirl, in rose-colored kimono and boudoir cap, was at the instrument, while twoothers, similarly accoutered, in each other’s arms, were parodying a dancenever learned at dancing school nor intended by the participants for male eyestosee.

The girl at the piano discovered him, winked, and played on. Not for anotherminute did the dancers spy him. They gave startled cries, collapsed, laughing,in each other’s arms, and the music stopped. They were gorgeous, healthyyoung creatures, the three of them, and Forrest’s eye kindled as he looked attheminquitethesamewaythatithadkindledwhenheregardedtheFotheringtonPrincess.

Persiflage, of the sort that obtains among young things of the human kind,flewbackandforth.

“I’vebeenherefiveminutes,”DickForrestasserted.

Thetwodancers,tocovertheirconfusion,doubtedhisveracityandinstanced

his many well-known and notorious guilts of mendacity. The girl at the piano,Ernestine, his sister-in-law, insisted that pearls of truth fell from his lips, thatshe had seen him from the moment he began to look, and that as she estimatedthepassageoftimehehadbeenlookingmuchlongerthanfiveminutes.

“Well, anyway,” Forrest broke in on their babel, “Bert, the sweet innocent,doesn’tthinkyouareupyet.”

“We’re not... to him,” one of the dancers, a vivacious young Venus, retorted.“Norarewetoyoueither.Sorunalong,littleboy.Runalong.”

“Look here, Lute,” Forrest began sternly. “Just because I am a decrepit oldman, and just because you are eighteen, just eighteen, and happen to be mywife’s sister, you needn’t presume to put the high and mighty over on me.Don’tforget—¬andIstatethefact,disagreeableasitmaybe,forRita’ssake

—¬don’t forget that in the past ten years I’ve paddled you more disgracefultimesthanyoucaretodaremetoenumerate.

“It is true, I am not so young as I used to was, but—¬” He felt the biceps ofhis right arm and made as if to roll up the sleeve. “—¬But, I’m not all in yet,andfortwocents...”

“What?”theyoungwomanchallengedbelligerently.

“For two cents,” he muttered darkly. “For two cents... Besides, and it grievesme to inform you, your cap is not on straight. Also, it is not a very tastefulcreation at best. I could make a far more becoming cap with my toes, asleep,and...yes,seasickaswell.”

Lutetossedherblondheaddefiantly,glancedathercomradesinsolicitationofsupport,andsaid:

“Oh, I don’t know. It seems humanly reasonable that the three of us canwoman-handle a mere man of your elderly and insulting avoirdupois. What doyou say, girls? Let’s rush him. He’s not a minute under forty, and he has ananeurism. Yes, and though loath to divulge family secrets, he’s got Meniere’sDisease.”

Ernestine, a small but robust blonde of eighteen, sprang from the piano andjoined her two comrades in a raid on the cushions of the deep window seats.Side by side, a cushion in each hand, and with proper distance between themcannily established for the swinging of the cushions, they advanced upon thefoe.

Forrest prepared for battle, then held up his hand for parley.“’Fraidcat!”theytaunted,inseveralatfirst,andtheninchorus.Heshookhisheademphatically.

“Justforthat, andforalltherestofyourinsolences,thethree ofyouare going

to get yours. All the wrongs of a lifetime are rising now in my brain in adazzling brightness. I shall go Berserk in a moment. But first, and I speak asan agriculturist, and I address myself to you, Lute, in all humility, in heaven’snamewhatisMeniere’sDisease?Dosheepcatchit?”

“Meniere’s Disease is,” Lute began,... “is what you’ve got. Sheep are the onlyknownlivingcreaturesthatgetit.”

Ensued red war and chaos. Forrest made a football rush of the sort thatobtained in California before the adoption of Rugby; and the girls broke theline to let him through, turned upon him, flanked him on either side, andpoundedhimwithcushions.

He turned, with widespread arms, extended fingers, each finger a hook, andgrappled the three. The battle became a whirlwind, a be-spurred man thecenter,fromwhichradiatedflyingdraperiesofflimsysilk,disconnectedslippers, boudoir caps, and hairpins. There were thuds from the cushions,grunts from the man, squeals, yelps and giggles from the girls, and from thetotality of the combat inextinguishable laughter and a ripping and tearing offragiletextures.

DickForrestfoundhimselfsprawledonthefloor,thewindhalfknockedoutof him by shrewdly delivered cushions, his head buzzing from the buffeting,and, in one hand, a trailing, torn, and generally disrupted girdle of pale bluesilkandpinkroses.

In one doorway, cheeks flaming from the struggle, stood Rita, alert as a fawnandreadytoflee.Intheotherdoorway,likewiseflame-checked,stoodErnestineinthecommandingattitudeoftheMotheroftheGracchi,thewreckage of her kimono wrapped severely about her and held severely aboutherbyherownwaist-pressingarm.Lute,corneredbehindthepiano,attemptedtorunbutwasdrivenbackbythemenaceofForrest,who,onhandsandknees,stamped loudly with the palms of his hands on the hardwood floor, rolled hisheadsavagely,andemittedbull-likeroars.

“And they still believe that old prehistoric myth,” Ernestine proclaimed fromsafety,“thatoncehe,thatwretchedsemblanceofaman-thingproneinthedirt,captainedBerkeleytovictoryoverStanford.”

Her breasts heaved from the exertion, and he marked the pulsating of theshimmering cherry-colored silk with delight as he flung his glance around totheothertwogirlssimilarlybreathing.

The piano was a miniature grand—¬a dainty thing of rich white and gold tomatchthemorningroom.Itstoodoutfromthewall,sothattherewaspossibility for Lute to escape around either way of it. Forrest gained his feetand faced her across the broad, flat top of the instrument. As he threatened tovaultit,Lutecriedoutinhorror:

“Butyourspurs,Dick!Yourspurs!”

“Givemetimetotakethemoff,”heoffered.

Ashestoopedtounbucklethem,Lutedartedtoescape,butwasherdedbacktotheshelterofthepiano.

“All right,” he growled. “On your head be it. If the piano’s scratched I’ll tellPaula.”

“I’ve got witnesses,” she panted, indicating with her blue joyous eyes theyoungthingsinthedoorways.

“Very well, my dear.” Forrest drew back his body and spread his restingpalms.“I’mcomingovertoyou.”

Action and speech were simultaneous. His body, posited sidewise from hishands,wasvaultedacross,theperilousspursafullfootabovetheglossywhitesurface. And simultaneously Lute ducked and went under the piano on handsand knees. Her mischance lay in that she bumped her head, and, before shecouldrecoverway,Forresthadcircledthepianoandcorneredherunderit.

“Comeout!”hecommanded.“Comeoutandtakeyourmedicine!”

“A truce,” she pleaded. “A truce, Sir Knight, for dear love’s sake and alldamselsindistress.”

“I ain’t no knight,” Forrest announced in his deepest bass. “I’m an ogre, afilthy,debasedandaltogetherunregenerateogre.Iwasborninthetule-swamps. My father was an ogre and my mother was more so. I was lulled toslumber on the squalls of infants dead, foreordained, and predamned. I wasnourished solely on the blood of maidens educated in Mills Seminary. Myfavorite chophouse has ever been a hardwood floor, a loaf of Mills Seminarymaiden,andaroofofflatpiano.Myfather,aswellasanogre,wasaCalifornia horse-thief. I am more reprehensible than my father. I have moreteeth. My mother, as well as an ogress, was a Nevada book-canvasser. Let allher shame be told. She even solicited subscriptions for ladies’ magazines. I ammoreterriblethanmymother.Ihavepeddledsafetyrazors.”

“Can naught soothe and charm your savage breast?” Lute pleaded in soulfultoneswhileshestudiedherchancesforescape.

“One thing only, miserable female. One thing only, on the earth, over theearth,andunderitsruiningwaters—¬”

AsquawkofrecognizedplagiarisminterruptedhimfromErnestine.

“See Ernest Dowson, page seventy-nine, a thin book of thin verse ladled outwith porridge to young women detentioned at Mills Seminary,” Forrest wenton. “As I had already enunciated before I was so rudely interrupted, the onethingonlythatcanbalmandembalmthissavagebreastisthe‘Maiden’s

Prayer.’ Listen, with all your ears ere I chew them off in multitude and gross!Listen, silly, unbeautiful, squat, short-legged and ugly female under the piano!Canyourecitethe’Maiden’sPrayer’?”

Screams of delight from the young things in the doorways prevented theproperanswerandLute,fromunderthepiano,criedouttoyoungWainwright,whohadappeared:

“Arescue,SirKnight!Arescue!”

“Unhandthemaiden!”wasBert’schallenge.“Whoartthou?”Forrestdemanded.

“KingGeorge,sirrah!—¬Imean,er,SaintGeorge.”

“ThenamIthydragon,”Forrestannouncedwithduehumility.“Sparethisancient,honorable,andonlyneckIhave.”

“Offwithhishead!”theyoungthingsencouraged.

“Stay thee, maidens, I pray thee,” Bert begged. “I am only a Small Potato. Yetam I unafraid. I shall beard the dragon. I shall beard him in his gullet, and,while he lingeringly chokes to death over my unpalatableness and generalspinefulness, do you, fair damsels, flee to the mountains lest the valleys falluponyou.Yolo,Petaluma,andWestSacramentoareabouttobeoverwhelmedbyatidalwaveandmanybigfishes.”

“Off with his head!” the young things chanted. “Slay him in his blood andbarbecuehim!”

“Thumbsdown,”Forrestgroaned.“Iamundone.Trusttotheunstrainedquality of mercy possessed by Christian young women in the year 1914 whowillvotesomedayifevertheygrowupanddonotmarryforeigners.Considermyheadoff,SaintGeorge.Iamexpired.Furtherdeponentsayethnot.”

AndForrest,withsobsandslubberings,withrealisticshuddersandkicksandagreatjinglingofspurs,laydownonthefloorandexpired.

Lute crawled out from under the piano, and was joined by Rita and Ernestineinanextemporizeddanceoftheharpiesabouttheslain.

Inthemidstofit,Forrestsatup,protesting.Also,hewasguiltyofasignificantandprivywinktoLute.

“Thehero!”hecried.“Forgethimnot.Crownhimwithflowers.”

And Bert was crowned with flowers from the vases, unchanged from the daybefore. When a bunch of water-logged stems of early tulips, propelled byLute’s vigorous arm, impacted soggily on his neck under the ear, he fled. Theriotofpursuitechoedalongthehallanddiedoutdownthestairwaytowardthestagroom.Forrestgatheredhimselftogether,and,grinning,wentjinglingon

throughtheBigHouse.

He crossed two patios on brick walks roofed with Spanish tile and swampedwithearlyfoliageandblooms,andgainedhiswingofthehouse,stillbreathingfromthefun,tofind,intheoffice,hissecretaryawaitinghim.

“Good morning, Mr. Blake,” he greeted. “Sorry I was delayed.” He glanced athiswrist-watch.“Onlyfourminutes,however.Ijustcouldn’tgetawaysooner.”

CHAPTERIV

FromninetilltenForrestgavehimselfuptohissecretary,achievingacorrespondence that included learned societies and every sort of breeding andagricultural organization and that would have compelled the average pettybusinessman,unaided,tosituptillmidnighttoaccomplish.

For Dick Forrest was the center of a system which he himself had built and ofwhich he was secretly very proud. Important letters and documents he signedwith his ragged fist. All other letters were rubber-stamped by Mr. Blake, who,also,inshorthand,inthecourseofthehour,putdowntheindicatedanswerstomany letters and received the formula designations of reply to many otherletters. Mr. Blake’s private opinion was that he worked longer hours than hisemployer, although it was equally his private opinion that his employer was awonderfordiscoveringworkforotherstoperform.

At ten, to the stroke of the clock, as Pittman, Forrest’s show-manager, enteredtheoffice,Blake,burdenedwithtraysofcorrespondence,sheafsofdocuments,andphonographcylinders,fadedawaytohisownoffice.

From ten to eleven a stream of managers and foremen flowed in and out. Allwerewelldisciplinedintersenessandtime-saving.AsDickForresthadtaughtthem, the minutes spent with him were not minutes of cogitation. They mustbepreparedbeforetheyreportedorsuggested.Bonbright,theassistantsecretary, always arrived at ten to replace Blake; and Bonbright, close toshoulder, with flying pencil, took down the rapid-fire interchange of questionandanswer,statementandproposalandplan.Theseshorthandnotes,transcribed and typed in duplicate, were the nightmare and, on occasion, theNemesis, of the managers and foremen. For, first, Forrest had a remarkablememory; and, second, he was prone to prove its worth by reference to thosesamenotesofBonbright.

A manager, at the end of a five or ten minute session, often emerged sweating,limpandfrazzled.Yetforaswifthour,athightension,Forrestmetallcomers,withamaster’sgriphandlingthemandallthemultifariousdetailsoftheir

variousdepartments.HetoldThompson,themachinist,infourflashingminutes, where the fault lay in the dynamo to the Big House refrigerator, laidthe fault home to Thompson, dictated a note to Bonbright, with citation bypage and chapter to a volume from the library to be drawn by Thompson, toldThompson that Parkman, the dairy manager, was not satisfied with the latestwiring up of milking machines, and that the refrigerating plant at the slaughterhousewasbalkingatitsaccustomedload.

Eachmanwasaspecialist,yetForrestwastheprovedmasteroftheirspecialties. As Paulson, the head plowman, complained privily to Dawson, thecrop manager: “I’ve worked here twelve years and never have I seen him puthis hands to a plow, and yet, damn him, he somehow seems to know. He’s agenius, that’s what he is. Why, d’ye know, I’ve seen him tear by a piece ofwork, his hands full with that Man-Eater of his a-threatenin’ sudden funeral,an’, next morning, had ’m mention casually to a half-inch how deep it wasplowed an’ what plows’d done the plowin’!—¬Take that plowin’ of the PoppyMeadow, up above Little Meadow, on Los Cuatos. I just couldn’t see my wayto it, an’ had to cut out the cross-sub-soiling, an’ thought I could slip it over onhim.Afteritwasallfinishedhekindofhappenedupthatway—¬Iwaslookin’an’hedidn’tseemtolook—¬an’,well,nextA.M.Igotmineintheoffice.No;Ididn’tslipitover.Iain’ttriedtoslipnothingoversince.”

At eleven sharp, Wardman, his sheep manager, departed with an engagementscheduled at eleven: thirty to ride in the machine along with Thayer, the Idahobuyer,tolookovertheShropshirerams.Ateleven,Bonbrighthavingdepartedwith Wardman to work up his notes, Forrest was left alone in the office. Froma wire tray of unfinished business—¬one of many wire trays superimposed ingroups of five—¬he drew a pamphlet issued by the State of Iowa on hogcholeraandproceededtoscanit.

Five feet, ten inches in height, weighing a clean-muscled one hundred andeighty pounds, Dick Forrest was anything but insignificant for a forty years’old man. The eyes were gray, large, over-arched by bone of brow, and lashesandbrowsweredark.Thehair,aboveanordinaryforehead,waslightbrowntochestnut.Undertheforehead,thecheeksshowedhigh-boned,withunderneath the slight hollows that necessarily accompany such formation. Thejaws were strong without massiveness, the nose, large-nostriled, was straightenough and prominent enough without being too straight or prominent, thechin square without harshness and uncleft, and the mouth girlish and sweet toa degree that did not hide the firmness to which the lips could set on dueprovocation.Theskinwassmoothandwell-tanned,although,midwaybetween eyebrows and hair, the tan of forehead faded in advertisement of therimoftheBadenPowellinterposedbetweenhimandthesun.

Laughterlurkedinthemouthcornersandeye-corners,andtherewerecheek

lines about the mouth that would seem to have been formed by laughter.Equally strong, however, every line of the face that meant blended thingscarried a notice of surety. Dick Forrest was sure—¬ sure, when his handreachedoutforanyobjectonhisdesk,thatthehandwouldstraightlyattaintheobject without a fumble or a miss of a fraction of an inch; sure, when his brainleaped the high places of the hog cholera text, that it was not missing a point;sure, from his balanced body in the revolving desk-chair to the balanced back-head of him; sure, in heart and brain, of life and work, of all he possessed, andofhimself.

He had reason to be sure. Body, brain, and career were long-proven sure. Arich man’s son, he had not played ducks and drakes with his father’s money.City born and reared, he had gone back to the land and made such a success asto put his name on the lips of breeders wherever breeders met and talked. Hewas the owner, without encumbrance, of two hundred and fifty thousand acresof land—¬land that varied in value from a thousand dollars an acre to ahundred dollars, that varied from a hundred dollars to ten cents an acre, andthat, in stretches, was not worth a penny an acre. The improvements on thatquarter of a million acres, from drain-tiled meadows to dredge-drained tuleswamps, from good roads to developed water-rights, from farm buildings tothe Big House itself, constituted a sum gaspingly ungraspable to the country-side.