himself, and so, really, was Dickie when he made his
own statement in a queer tone of frightened awe. "They look like a flower
garden in Hell," he whispered.

Lorrimer threw up his chin. "Say that again, will you?" he snapped out.
"Go on! Don't stop! Tell me everything that comes into your damn young
head of a wandering Martian! Fly at it! I'll take you down."

"You mean," said Dickie, "tell you what I think this looks like?"

"That's what I mean, do."

Dickie smiled a queer sort of smile. He had found a listener at last. A
moment later Lorrimer's pencil was in rapid motion. And the reporter's
eyes shot little stabbing looks at Dickie's unselfconscious face. When
it was over he snapped an elastic round his notebook, returned it to his
pocket, and laid his hand on Dickie's thin, tense arm.

"Come along with me, Dick," said Lorrimer. "You've won. I've been
fighting you and my duty to my neighbor for a fortnight. Your waiter days
are over. I've adopted you. I'm my brother's keeper all right. We'll both
go hungry now and then probably, but what's the odds! I need you. I
haven't been able to hand in a story like that for years. I'm a burnt-out
candle and you're the divine fire. I'm going to educate the life out of
you. I'm going to train you till you wish you'd died young and
ungrammatical in Millings. I may not be much good myself," he added
solemnly, "but God gave me the sense to know the real thing when I see
it. I've been fighting you, calling myself a fool for weeks. Come along,
young fellow, don't hang back, and for your credit's sake close your lips
so you won't look like a case of arrested development. First we'll say
good-bye to the hash-hole and the white apron and then I'll take you up
to your sky parlor and we'll talk things over."

"God!" said Dickie faintly. It was a prayer for some enlightenment.

CHAPTER VIII

DESERTION

Hilliard rode up along Hidden Creek on a frosty October morning.
Everywhere now the aspens were torches of gold, the cottonwood trees
smoky and gaunt, the ground bright with fallen leaves. He had the look of
a man who has swept his heart clean of devils...his face was keen with
his desire. He sang as he rode--sweetly an old sentimental Spanish song,
something his mother had taught him; but it was not of his mother he
thought, or only, perhaps, deep down in his subconsciousness, of that
early mother-worship, age-old and most mysterious, which now he had
translated and transfe