Jim Misterton was a quiet, reserved fellow, who had come straight to
Paradise from a desk in some dingy London counting-house. He told us
that something was wrong with his lungs, and that the simple life had
been prescribed. He was very green, very sanguine, and engaged to be
married--a secret confided to us later, when acquaintance had ripened
into friendship. Every Sunday Jim would ride down to our ranch, sup
with us, and smoke three pipes upon the verandah, describing at great
length the process of transmuting the wilderness into a garden. He
built a small board-and-batten house, planted a vineyard and orchard,
bought a couple of cows and an incubator. Reserved about matters
personal to himself, he never grew tired of describing his
possessions, nor of speculating in regard to their possibilities. If
ever a man counted his chickens before the eggs had been placed in the
incubator, Jim Misterton was he.
Ajax and I listened in silence to these outpourings. Ajax contended--
perhaps rightly--that Misterton's optimism was part of the "cure." He
bade me remark the young fellow's sparkling eyes and ruddy cheeks.
"He calls that forsaken claim of his Eden," said my brother. "Shall we
tell him what sort of a Hades it really is?"
One day, some months after this, we rode up to Eden. It presented the
usual heart-breaking appearance so familiar to men who have lived in a
wild country and witnessed, year after year, the furious struggle
between Man and Nature. Misterton had cleared and planted about forty
acres, enclosed with a barb-wire fence. Riding along this, we saw that
many of his fruit trees had been barked and ruined by jack-rabbits.
The month was September. A rainless summer had dried up a spring near
his house, which, against our advice, he had attempted to develop by
tunnelling. The new chicken-yards held no chickens.
Nevertheless, Jim welcomed us with a cheery smile. He had made
mistakes, of course--who didn't? But he intended to come out on top,
you bet your life! Western slang flowed freely from his lips. The
blazing sun, which already had cracked the unpainted shingles on his
roof, had bleached the crude blue of his jumper and overalls. His
sombrero might have belonged to a veteran cowboy. Jim wore it with a
rakish list to port, and round his neck fluttered a small, white silk
handkerchief. He looked askance at our English breeches and saddles.
Then he said pleasantly, "I've taken out my naturalisation papers."
After lunch, he told us about his Angela, and displayed her
photograph.
"She's coming out," he added shyly, "as soon as I've got things
fixed."
"Coming out?" we repeated in amazement.
"It's all settled," said Jim. "I'm to meet her in 'Frisco; we shall be
married, and then I'm going to bring her here for the honeymoon. Won't
it be larks?"
Ajax answered, without any enthusiasm, "Won't it?" and stared at the
young, pretty face smiling up at him.
"Angela is as keen about this place as I am," continued the fond and
beaming Jim. "It's going to be Eden for her too, God bless her!"