Bob saw as he turned into the Bungalow Court at El Centro a youngish
woman in white sitting on the second porch. In spite of the absence of
the weeds he recognized her as the widow who had come down the street
that other morning to meet Jim Crill. This, then, was Crill's place.
Evidently the twelve months of bereavement had elapsed, and Mrs.
Barnett, having done her full duty, felt that the ghost of her departed
could no longer have any just complaints if she wore a little white of
her own.
Bob had come to see Crill. Since that evening with Imogene Chandler he
had worried a good deal about their being without money. He had tried
to get the ginning company that had advanced his own funds to make them
a loan. But everybody had grown wary and quit lending across the line.
Bob as a last resort had come up to see if Crill could be induced to
help.
"Good morning." Rogeen lifted his straw hat as he stood on the first
step of the porch, and smiled. "Is Mr. Crill at home?"
"No." Mrs. Barnett had nodded rather stiffly in response to his
greeting, and lifted her eyes questioningly. She was waiting for
someone else, and hence felt no cordiality for this stranger, whom she
dimly seemed to remember.
"When will he be in?" The young man was obviously disappointed, and he
really was good to look at.
"I don't know exactly." Mrs. Barnett relented slightly, having glanced
down the road to be sure another machine was not coming. "But as I
attend to much of his business, perhaps if you will tell me what it is
you want I can arrange it for you. Won't you come up and have a chair?"
Bob accepted the invitation, not that he intended to mention his
business to her, but he had a notion that Jim Crill was due to arrive
about lunch time.
"Are you from the East?" That was Mrs. Barnett's idea of tactful
flattery. She asked it of all callers.
"Yes."
"What part, may I ask?"
"All parts," he smiled, "east of here and west of the Mississippi."
"It is so different here," Mrs. Barnett lifted her brows and raised her
eyes as though she were singing "The Lost Chord," "from what I am used
to."
"Yes," assented Bob, "it is different from what I am used to. That is
why I like it."
"Oh, do you?" Shocked disappointment in her tone implied that it was
too bad he was not a kindred spirit. "I find everything so crude; and
such loose standards here." A regretful shake of the head. "The women
especially"--she thought of her tact again--"seem to have forgotten all
the formalities and nice conventions of good society--if they ever
knew. I suppose most of them were hired girls and clerks before they
were married."
[Illustration: Reedy Jenkins makes a proposition to Imogene.]
Bob made no comment. He did not know much about "nice formalities,"
but it had struck him that the women of Imperial Valley were uncommonly
good, friendly human beings, and he had seen a number of college
diplomas scattered round the valley.
"I heard of a woman recently," Mrs. Barnett went on, "who in the East
was in college circles; now she's living in a hut. Think of it, a hut
over on the other side among the Chinese and Mexicans! The only woman
there, and practically alone. It seems perfectly incredible! I don't
see how any decent woman could do a thing like that. Why, I'd rather
work in somebody's kitchen. There, at least, one could be respectable."
Bob got up.
"I guess I'll not wait longer for Mr. Crill," he said, and he went down
the steps, walking with rapid aversion. If Jim Crill left his business
to this female, he didn't want any of his money for the Chandlers.
The ginning company had agreed to lend Bob up to $1,500 on the crop,
advancing it along as he needed it. He was renting his teams, and had
bought very little machinery, so he had managed to use less than his
estimate. On his way back to the ranch he stopped at the company's
office in Calexico, and drew two hundred dollars more on the loan.
A few days later Rogeen, watching his opportunity, saw Chandler riding
alone toward town, and went out to the road and stopped him. After
some roundabout conversation Bob remarked:
"By the way, a friend of mine has a little money he wants to lend to
cotton growers at 10 per cent. Do you suppose you would be able to use
a couple of hundreds of it?"
"Ahem!" The ex-professor ran a bony hand over a lean chin. "It is
extremely probable, young man, extremely probable. I am very much
inclined to think that I can--that is, provided he would esteem my
personal signature to a promissory note sufficient guarantee for the
payment of the indebtedness."
"That will be entirely sufficient." Bob smiled reassuringly, and
pretended to write out--it was already prepared--a note. Chandler
signed, and Bob gave him two hundred dollars in currency.
The next evening when Bob returned from the field he found a sealed
envelope on the little board table in his shack. It contained $100 in
currency and a note which read:
You can't afford this loan; but we need the money so darned bad I'm
going to split it with you. I like the fiddle better than any musical
instrument that is made.
I. C.
Toward the last of June old cotton growers told Bob that his field was
sure to go a bale and a quarter an acre, and Chandler's was about as
good.
On the twenty-sixth of June a Mexican officer came to the ranch and
arrested Rogeen's Chinese cook and one of his field hands. Bob offered
bail, but it was refused. The day following the remaining Chinaman was
arrested.
Bob got other hands, but on July first all three of these were arrested.
"I see," Bob said to himself, thinking it over that evening, "this is
the first of Jenkins' schemes. They are going to make Chinamen afraid
to work for me. Well, Noah and I can manage until I can hire some
Americans."
At nine o'clock it was yet too hot to sleep, and Bob too restless to
sit still. He got up and started out to walk. Without any definite
intention he turned down the road south. He had gone about half a mile
and thought of turning back when he saw something in the road
ahead--something white. It was a woman, and she was running toward him.