our work at first. Suppose you begin at thirty, an'
work up to the forty. I'll play fair. Just as soon as you can do your
share you get the forty."

"I'll go you," Martin announced, stretching out his hand, which the other
shook. "Any advance?--for rail-road ticket and extras?"

"I blew it in," was Joe's sad answer, with another reach at his aching
head. "All I got is a return ticket."

"And I'm broke--when I pay my board."

"Jump it," Joe advised.

"Can't. Owe it to my sister."

Joe whistled a long, perplexed whistle, and racked his brains to little
purpose.

"I've got the price of the drinks," he said desperately. "Come on, an'
mebbe we'll cook up something."

Martin declined.

"Water-wagon?"

This time Martin nodded, and Joe lamented, "Wish I was."

"But I somehow just can't," he said in extenuation. "After I've ben
workin' like hell all week I just got to booze up. If I didn't, I'd cut
my throat or burn up the premises. But I'm glad you're on the wagon.
Stay with it."

Martin knew of the enormous gulf between him and this man--the gulf the
books had made; but he found no difficulty in crossing back over that
gulf. He had lived all his life in the working-class world, and the
camaraderie of labor was second nature with him. He solved the
difficulty of transportation that was too much for the other's aching
head. He would send his trunk up to Shelly Hot Springs on Joe's ticket.
As for himself, there was his wheel. It was seventy miles, and he could
ride it on Sunday and be ready for work Monday morning. In the meantime
he would go home and pack up. There was no one to say good-by to. Ruth
and her whole family were spending the long summer in the Sierras, at
Lake Tahoe.

He arrived at Shelly Hot Springs, tired and dusty, on Sunday night. Joe
greeted him exuberantly. With a wet towel bound about his aching brow,
he had been at work all day.

"Part of last week's washin' mounted up, me bein' away to get you," he
explained. "Your box arrived all right. It's in your room. But it's a
hell of a thing to call a trunk. An' what's in it? Gold bricks?"

Joe sat on the bed while Martin unpacked. The box was a packing-case for
breakfast food, and Mr. Higginbotham had charged him half a dollar for
it. Two rope handles, nailed on by Martin, had technically transformed
it into a trunk eligible for the baggage-car. Joe watched, with bulging
eyes, a few shirts and several changes of underc