He stretched three or four times, twisting about in his place, curling
and uncurling his toes, muttering from time to time between two yawns:

"Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!"

He stared about the room, collecting his thoughts, readjusting himself
for the day's work.

The room was barren, the walls of tongue-and-groove sheathing--alternate
brown and yellow boards--like the walls of a stable, were adorned with
two or three unframed lithographs, the Christmas "souvenirs" of weekly
periodicals, fastened with great wire nails; a bunch of herbs or
flowers, lamentably withered and grey with dust, was affixed to the
mirror over the black walnut washstand by the window, and a yellowed
photograph of Annixter's combined harvester--himself and his men in a
group before it--hung close at hand. On the floor, at the bedside and
before the bureau, were two oval rag-carpet rugs. In the corners of
the room were muddy boots, a McClellan saddle, a surveyor's transit, an
empty coal-hod and a box of iron bolts and nuts. On the wall over the
bed, in a gilt frame, was Annixter's college diploma, while on the
bureau, amid a litter of hair-brushes, dirty collars, driving gloves,
cigars and the like, stood a broken machine for loading shells.

It was essentially a man's room, rugged, uncouth, virile, full of the
odours of tobacco, of leather, of rusty iron; the bare floor hollowed by
the grind of hob-nailed boots, the walls marred by the friction of heavy
things of metal. Strangely enough, Annixter's clothes were disposed
of on the single chair with the precision of an old maid. Thus he had
placed them the night before; the boots set carefully side by side, the
trousers, with the overalls still upon them, neatly folded upon the seat
of the chair, the coat hanging from its back.

The Quien Sabe ranch house was a six-room affair, all on one floor. By
no excess of charity could it have been called a home. Annixter was a
wealthy man; he could have furnished his dwelling with quite as much
elegance as that of Magnus Derrick. As it was, however, he considered
his house merely as a place to eat, to sleep, to change his clothes
in; as a shelter from the rain, an office where business was
transacted--nothing more.

When he was sufficiently awake, Annixter thrust his feet into a pair of
wicker slippers, and shuffled across the office adjoining his bedroom,
to the bathroom just beyond, and stood under the icy shower a few
minutes, his teeth chattering, fulmin