post of hardship and privation was that which he
unobtrusively assumed; and, indeed, there are men still living who, but
for this, would long since have left their bones in the desert--
occupants of unknown graves. No, assuredly none who know him can ever
mistake Renshaw Fanning for a muff.

Such is the man whom we see, solitary, depressed, and in breaking
health, contemplating, on his desert farm, the approach of ruin--which
ruin all efforts on his part are powerless to avert.

CHAPTER TWO.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

Down, down to the far horizon sinks the westering sun, the malignant
fierceness of his blazing countenance abating somewhat, for he is within
an hour of his rest. Yet the earth still gives forth its shimmering
heat, and on every side the red surface of the parched-up plain assumes
a hue of blood beneath the golden glow of sunset, which, contrasted with
the vivid blue of the heavens, is productive of a strangely weird and
unearthly effect.

So thinks, at any rate, a horseman, toilsomely making his way over its
inhospitable expanse. His steed, suffering terribly from want of water,
as well as from a lack of nutritious food, can hardly drag its limbs
along, and more than once has the rider endeavoured to relieve the poor
beast by undertaking long spells of walking. But who can indulge in
protracted exercise under such difficulties? Consequently the horseman,
though of fine and powerful build, is nearly as fagged and used up as
his unfortunate steed. Now and again a flying locust raps him in the
face as he rides.

"What an infernal country!" he exclaims aloud, wiping his dripping
forehead. "Nearly sunset, no sort of habitation in sight, and not even
a drop of water in this howling desert. By Jove! the situation is
getting serious," he adds, in a tone bordering on alarm.

His alarm is not without reason. Since quitting last night's camp
beside a nearly dry waterhole, containing a noisome mixture, and that of
the consistency of pea-soup, he has found no trace of the indispensable
fluid. And he is lost. A worn-out horse under him, foodless,
waterless, in the midst of an apparently interminable desert, he has
every excuse for beginning to feel excessively concerned.

He is a fine, tall, well set-up man, this stranger. No partiality could
define him as handsome. His features have no regularity, and his
light-blue eyes are a trifle too small and deep set; but there is a
certain power about his co