r, "for
whatever he may not be he is certainly a well-bred gentleman," which
speech did not tend to raise Mr. Bridge in the estimation of the
hard-fisted ranch foreman.

"Funny them greasers don't come in from the north range with thet bunch
o' steers. They ben gone all day now," he said to the boss, ignoring the
girl's parting sally.

Bridge sat tip-tilted against the front of the office building reading
an ancient magazine which he had found within. His day's work was done
and he was but waiting for the gong that would call him to the evening
meal with the other employees of the ranch. The magazine failed to rouse
his interest. He let it drop idly to his knees and with eyes closed
reverted to his never-failing source of entertainment.

And then that slim, poetic guy he turned and looked me in the eye,
"....It's overland and overland and overseas to--where?"
"Most anywhere that isn't here," I says. His face went kind of queer.
"The place we're in is always here. The other place is there."

Bridge stretched luxuriously. "'There,'" he repeated. "I've been
searching for THERE for many years; but for some reason I can never get
away from HERE. About two weeks of any place on earth and that place is
just plain HERE to me, and I'm longing once again for THERE."

His musings were interrupted by a sweet feminine voice close by. Bridge
did not open his eyes at once--he just sat there, listening.

As I was hiking past the woods, the cool and sleepy summer woods,
I saw a guy a-talking to the sunshine in the air,
Thinks I, "He's going to have a fit--I'll stick around and watch a bit,"
But he paid no attention, hardly knowing I was there.

Then the girl broke into a merry laugh and Bridge opened his eyes and
came to his feet.

"I didn't know you cared for that sort of stuff," he said. "Knibbs
writes man-verse. I shouldn't have imagined that it would appeal to a
young lady."

"But it does, though," she replied; "at least to me. There's a swing to
it and a freedom that 'gets me in the eye.'"

Again she laughed, and when this girl laughed, harder-headed and much
older men than Mr. L. Bridge felt strange emotions move within their
breasts.

For a week Barbara had seen a great deal of the new bookkeeper. Aside
from her father he was the only man of culture and refinement of which
the rancho could boast, or, as the rancho would have put it, be ashamed
of.

She had often sought the veranda of the little