el it in my bones. Good-by, Mart, an' be good. I
like you like hell, you know."

He stood, a forlorn figure, in the middle of the road, watching until
Martin turned a bend and was gone from sight.

"He's a good Indian, that boy," he muttered. "A good Indian."

Then he plodded down the road himself, to the water tank, where half a
dozen empties lay on a side-track waiting for the up freight.

CHAPTER XIX

Ruth and her family were home again, and Martin, returned to Oakland, saw
much of her. Having gained her degree, she was doing no more studying;
and he, having worked all vitality out of his mind and body, was doing no
writing. This gave them time for each other that they had never had
before, and their intimacy ripened fast.

At first, Martin had done nothing but rest. He had slept a great deal,
and spent long hours musing and thinking and doing nothing. He was like
one recovering from some terrible bout if hardship. The first signs of
reawakening came when he discovered more than languid interest in the
daily paper. Then he began to read again--light novels, and poetry; and
after several days more he was head over heels in his long-neglected
Fiske. His splendid body and health made new vitality, and he possessed
all the resiliency and rebound of youth.

Ruth showed her disappointment plainly when he announced that he was
going to sea for another voyage as soon as he was well rested.

"Why do you want to do that?" she asked.

"Money," was the answer. "I'll have to lay in a supply for my next
attack on the editors. Money is the sinews of war, in my case--money and
patience."

"But if all you wanted was money, why didn't you stay in the laundry?"

"Because the laundry was making a beast of me. Too much work of that
sort drives to drink."

She stared at him with horror in her eyes.

"Do you mean--?" she quavered.

It would have been easy for him to get out of it; but his natural impulse
was for frankness, and he remembered his old resolve to be frank, no
matter what happened.

"Yes," he answered. "Just that. Several times."

She shivered and drew away from him.

"No man that I have ever known did that--ever did that."

"Then they never worked in the laundry at Shelly Hot Springs," he laughed
bitterly. "Toil is a good thing. It is necessary for human health, so
all the preachers say, and Heaven knows I've never been afraid of it. But
there is such a thing as too much of a goo