"Do they?" Her tone was even and inexpressive. But Mr. Chester kept
straight along the path he was treading.

"And that you're also the prettiest girl around Santa Lucia."

"That's very kind of them."

"I haven't seen your ranch, but about the rest of it they're dead
right."

To this, she made no answer.

"I'm just down for a few weeks," he went on, changing the subject when
he perceived that he had drawn no reply. "I'm a Senior next year at
Berkeley. Ever been over to Berkeley?"

"Yes."

"Ever go to any of the class dances?"

"No."

"Thought you might, being in the city winters. I'm not much on dances
myself. I'm a barb."

He peered, as though expecting that this last statement would evoke
some answer. But her eyes were fixed on the little group of
buildings--a bungalow, a barn and a corral--which had just come in
sight around a turn of the orchard road. For the first time, she spoke
with animation.

"There's the house--and there he is, just back of the stable!"

Dynamo, the bull, a black and tan patch amidst the greenery, stood
reaching with his tongue at an overhanging prune branch, bowed to the
breaking point with green beads of fruit. As they watched, he sucked
its tip between his blue lips, pulled at it with a twist of his head;
the branch cracked and broke. Dynamo, his eyes closed in meditative
enjoyment, started to absorb it from end to end.

"Oh, dear, he'll ruin it!" she cried. "Do hurry! Hadn't you better
send for help?"

"I figure I can handle him," said Bertram Chester, bristling at the
imputation. "Just give me that halter and drive in back of the
corral, will you?"

"Please don't let him trample any trees!" she called after her
champion as he vaulted the fence.

Dynamo, seeing the end of his picnic at hand, galloped awkwardly a few
rods, the branch trailing from his mouth. Then, with the ponderous but
sudden shift of bull psychology, indignation rose in his bosom. He
stopped himself so short that his fore-hoofs plowed two long furrows
in the soft earth; whirled, lifted his muzzle, and bellowed. One
fore-hoof tore up the dirt and showered it over his back. He dropped
to his knees and rubbed the ground with his neck in sheer abandonment
to the joy of his own abandoned wickedness. He rose up in the hollow
which he had dug, lowered his horns, and glowered at the youth, who
advanced with a kind of awkward bull-strength of his own.

"Chase yourself!" cried Bertram Chester, flicking th