ame, grew in oblong green boxes. The walls
were unadorned, save by two pictures, one a reproduction of the "Reading
from Homer," the other a charcoal drawing of the Mission of San Juan de
Guadalajara, which Presley had made himself. By the east window stood
the plainest of deal tables, innocent of any cloth or covering, such as
might have been used in a kitchen. It was Presley's work table, and was
invariably littered with papers, half-finished manuscripts, drafts of
poems, notebooks, pens, half-smoked cigarettes, and the like. Near at
hand, upon a shelf, were his books. There were but two chairs in the
room--the straight backed wooden chair, that stood in front of the
table, angular, upright, and in which it was impossible to take one's
ease, and the long comfortable wicker steamer chair, stretching its
length in front of the south window. Presley was immensely fond of
this room. It amused and interested him to maintain its air of rigorous
simplicity and freshness. He abhorred cluttered bric-a-brac and
meaningless objets d'art. Once in so often he submitted his room to a
vigorous inspection; setting it to rights, removing everything but the
essentials, the few ornaments which, in a way, were part of his life.

His writing had by this time undergone a complete change. The notes for
his great Song of the West, the epic poem he once had hoped to write
he had flung aside, together with all the abortive attempts at its
beginning. Also he had torn up a great quantity of "fugitive" verses,
preserving only a certain half-finished poem, that he called "The
Toilers." This poem was a comment upon the social fabric, and had been
inspired by the sight of a painting he had seen in Cedarquist's art
gallery. He had written all but the last verse.

On the day that he had overheard the conversation between Dyke and
Caraher, in the latter's saloon, which had acquainted him with the
monstrous injustice of the increased tariff, Presley had returned to Los
Muertos, white and trembling, roused to a pitch of exaltation, the like
of which he had never known in all his life. His wrath was little short
of even Caraher's. He too "saw red"; a mighty spirit of revolt heaved
tumultuous within him. It did not seem possible that this outrage could
go on much longer. The oppression was incredible; the plain story of
it set down in truthful statement of fact would not be believed by the
outside world.

He went up to his little room and paced the floor