way, I kind of loved everybody then, and wanted to
be everybody's friend. And I began to see that a fellow can't live
FOR himself any more than he can live BY himself. He's got to think of
others. If he's got brains, he's got to think for the poor ducks that
haven't 'em, and not give 'em a boot in the backsides because they
happen to be stupid; and if he's got money, he's got to help those that
are busted, and if he's got a house, he's got to think of those that
ain't got anywhere to go. I've got a whole lot of ideas since I began
to love Hilma, and just as soon as I can, I'm going to get in and HELP
people, and I'm going to keep to that idea the rest of my natural life.
That ain't much of a religion, but it's the best I've got, and Henry
Ward Beecher couldn't do any more than that. And it's all come about
because of Hilma, and because we cared for each other."

Presley jumped up, and caught Annixter about the shoulders with one
arm, gripping his hand hard. This absurd figure, with dangling silk
suspenders, lathered chin, and tearful eyes, seemed to be suddenly
invested with true nobility. Beside this blundering struggle to do
right, to help his fellows, Presley's own vague schemes, glittering
systems of reconstruction, collapsed to ruin, and he himself, with all
his refinement, with all his poetry, culture, and education, stood, a
bungler at the world's workbench.

"You're all RIGHT, old man," he exclaimed, unable to think of anything
adequate. "You're all right. That's the way to talk, and here, by the
way, I brought you a box of cigars."

Annixter stared as Presley laid the box on the edge of the washstand.

"Old fool," he remarked, "what in hell did you do that for?"

"Oh, just for fun."

"I suppose they're rotten stinkodoras, or you wouldn't give 'em away."

"This cringing gratitude--" Presley began.

"Shut up," shouted Annixter, and the incident was closed.

Annixter resumed his shaving, and Presley lit a cigarette.

"Any news from Washington?" he queried.

"Nothing that's any good," grunted Annixter. "Hello," he added, raising
his head, "there's somebody in a hurry for sure."

The noise of a horse galloping so fast that the hoof-beats sounded in
one uninterrupted rattle, abruptly made itself heard. The noise was
coming from the direction of the road that led from the Mission to Quien
Sabe. With incredible swiftness, the hoof-beats drew nearer. There was
that in their sound which brought Presley to hi