whose
only reflection upon his interior economy was a morbid concern in
the vagaries of his stomach. Yet the two never met without a mutual
pleasure, taking a genuine interest in each other's affairs, and often
putting themselves to great inconvenience to be of trifling service to
help one another.

As a last characteristic, Annixter pretended to be a woman-hater, for
no other reason than that he was a very bull-calf of awkwardness in
feminine surroundings. Feemales! Rot! There was a fine way for a man to
waste his time and his good money, lally gagging with a lot of feemales.
No, thank you; none of it in HIS, if you please. Once only he had an
affair--a timid, little creature in a glove-cleaning establishment in
Sacramento, whom he had picked up, Heaven knew how. After his return
to his ranch, a correspondence had been maintained between the two,
Annixter taking the precaution to typewrite his letters, and never
affixing his signature, in an excess of prudence. He furthermore made
carbon copies of all his letters, filing them away in a compartment
of his safe. Ah, it would be a clever feemale who would get him into a
mess. Then, suddenly smitten with a panic terror that he had committed
himself, that he was involving himself too deeply, he had abruptly sent
the little woman about her business. It was his only love affair. After
that, he kept himself free. No petticoats should ever have a hold on
him. Sure not.

As Presley came up to the edge of the porch, pushing his bicycle in
front of him, Annixter excused himself for not getting up, alleging that
the cramps returned the moment he was off his back.

"What are you doing up this way?" he demanded.

"Oh, just having a look around," answered Presley. "How's the ranch?"

"Say," observed the other, ignoring his question, "what's this I hear
about Derrick giving his tenants the bounce, and working Los Muertos
himself--working ALL his land?"

Presley made a sharp movement of impatience with his free hand. "I've
heard nothing else myself since morning. I suppose it must be so."

"Huh!" grunted Annixter, spitting out a prune stone. "You give Magnus
Derrick my compliments and tell him he's a fool." "What do you mean?"

"I suppose Derrick thinks he's still running his mine, and that the same
principles will apply to getting grain out of the earth as to getting
gold. Oh, let him go on and see where he brings up. That's right,
there's your Western farmer," he exclaimed co