mall potatoes compared to oil. People down
here will tell you that the Constitution is merely a matter of form and
that if the oil men will go on paying their taxes nothing will happen;
but, of course, that sort of assurance doesn't go far when a man's putting
up his money. If they get a new government down here, and we get a new one
at home, the chances are that the United States will demand guarantees of
some kind. It's a bad question, take it any way you like.

"The Mexican says: 'These oil lands are mine.' And they are. The American
says: 'What good were they to anybody when you had them?' None whatever,
and the world needs oil, so there you are."

They rode on for a few minutes in silence. Scott watched, with the mixed
pleasure of the horseman and the admiring male, the girl's graceful figure
adapt itself to the jog of the horse. He reflected that there was
something very clean-cut and alive about her, from the way her hair sprang
in its tight little waves away from her firm white neck, to the quick
flash of her dark eyes; there was a vividness and a health about her which
appealed strongly to the out-of-doors man.

Nothing could have been further from his idea of a rich man's daughter; a
pampered being, all nerves and affectations, helpless and parasitic. Of
course she was spoiled--used to being waited upon a good deal, and with
rather a good opinion of herself. One could see that. On the other hand,
it did not seem to go very deep; seemed, rather, the sort of thing that
might rub off when it came in contact with life. Even the rich sometimes
came into contact with life, he reflected, with a feeling of satisfaction.
They dodged a good many rough knocks that the poor couldn't dodge, but
something usually came along to even up the score, if nothing else--the
old boy with the scythe.

"Mr. Scott, when are you going to take me over to see Casa Grande?" said
the object of his meditations, suddenly.

"Me?" Scott turned on her in well simulated surprise. "Thought you didn't
want to go last time we talked about it."

"Well," Polly blushed, "I've changed my mind. I want to meet the
celebrity."

"Who? Victor Herrick? I don't think you'll care much for him if you go
over there looking for a celebrity. He's not that kind."

"I don't understand."

"He's not the kind that likes to go to pink teas and have a lot of women
hanging around him," explained Scott, promptly. "Not a society woman's
pet. Too good a musician, I