They were not yet tired. They gave Jane and her basket vociferous
greeting, crowding round her and buying eagerly. Atwood and Henry having
placed orders hung back, content to wait for a later moment when she
might have leisure to talk to them.
Tommy helped Jane to hand out sandwiches and make change. He felt like
the faithful squire of a great lady. He had read much romantic
literature, and he served as well if not as picturesquely as a page in
doublet and hose.
So O-liver saw them. He had been riding all the afternoon on Mary Pick.
He had gone up into the Cañon of the Honey Pots. No one knew it by that
name but O-liver, but at all the houses one could buy honey. Up and down
the road were little stands on which were set forth glasses and jars of
amber sweet. The bees flashed like motes in the sunlight, the air was
heavy with the fragrance of the flowers which yielded their largess to
the marauders.
It was dark when he rode down toward the town. It lay before him, all
twinkling lights. Above it hung a thin moon and countless stars. It
might have been a fairy town under the kindly cover of the night.
But when he reached the central square the illusion ceased. It was what
men had made it--sordid, cheap. He stopped Mary Pick under a pepper tree
and surveyed the scene.
Jane and her basket were the center of an excited group. She had almost
reached the end of her supplies, and some one had suggested auctioning
off the remainder. Jane had protested, but her protests had not availed.
She had turned to Tommy for help, to Henry, to Atwood. They had done
their best. But the man who led the crowd had an object in his
leadership. It was Tillotson of the little hotel--red-faced,
whisky-soaked.
"Sandwich Jane, Sandwich Jane!" he shouted. "That's the name for her,
boys."