d he, "after they get done at El Paso, whatever they
sing, the grub wagon will be located in the Sacramentos, while old
Blauring, he goes on in advance and rides a little sign out near
'Frisco and other places, where Art is patronized copious. Yes,
friend, 'Annie Laurie,' she'll be up in Sacramentos; and from all I can
figure, there'll be trouble in that particular health resort."

"Sometimes I think you're _loco_," said Tom Osby, slowly; "then again I
think you ain't, quite. The man who allows he's any better than this
country don't belong here; but I didn't think you ever did."

"No!" cried Dan Anderson. "Don't ever say that of me."

"Of course, I know folks is different," went on Tom Osby, presently.
"They come from different places, and have lived different ways. Me, I
come from Georgy. I never did have much chanct for edication, along of
the war breakin' out. My folks was in the fightin' some; and so I
drifted here,"

"You came from Georgia?" asked Dan Anderson. "I was born farther
north. I had a little schooling, but the only schooling I ever had in
all my life that was worth while, I got right here in Heart's Desire.
The only real friends I ever had are here.

"Now," he went on, "it's because I feel that way, and because you're
going to punch your freight team more than a hundred miles south next
week to see if you can get a look at that 'Annie Laurie' woman--it's
because of those things that I want to help you if I can. And that's
the truth--or something resemblin' it, maybe.

"Now listen, Tom. Madame Donatelli is no Dago, and she's not dead.
She was a Georgia girl herself--Alice Strowbridge was her name, and she
had naturally a wonderful voice. She went to Paris and Italy to study
long before I came out West. She first sang in Milan, and her
appearance was a big success. She's made thousands and thousands of
dollars."

"About how old is she?" asked Tom Osby.

"I should think about thirty-five," said Dan Anderson. "That is,
countin' years, and not experience."

"I'm just about forty-five," said Tom, "countin' both."

"Well, she came from Georgia--"

"And so did I," observed Tom Osby, casually.

Dan Anderson was troubled. His horizon was wider than Tom Osby's.

"It's far, Tom," said he; "it's very far."

"I everidge about twenty mile a day," said Tom, not wholly
understanding. "I can make it in less'n a week."

"Tom," cried Dan Anderson, "don't!"

But Tom Osby only trod half a