ember Bob went down to the Chandler ranch to give an
account of the cotton picking.

"You have 150 bales at the compress. I put up the compress receipts
for the debts," said Bob to Imogene. "There is $3,123 against your
cotton. I could not borrow another dollar on it."

"You have done so much for us already," the girl said, feelingly. "And
we'll get along some way. If cotton would only begin to sell, we would
have a little fortune."

"I have 180 bales," said Bob, "but I owe something over $4,000 on it.
I am going up to Calexico and get a job until spring." He hesitated a
moment, looking at the girl thoughtfully. The summer and hard work and
constant worry had left her thin and with a look of anxiety in her eyes.

"Hadn't you also better move to town?"

She laughed at that. "Why, dear sir, what do you suppose we should
live on in town? Out here we have no rent and can at least raise some
vegetables. No, we'll stick it out until we see whether this war is
merely a flurry or a deluge."

For a week Bob hunted a job in Calexico. His need for funds was acute.
He had managed to get enough on his cotton to pay all his labour bills
but had not kept a dollar for himself.

Tuesday evening he had gone up to his room at the hotel, a court room
with one window and broken plaster and a chipped water pitcher. There
was no job in sight. Everything was at a standstill, and the cotton
market looked absolutely hopeless. His note for the $4,000 fell due
January first. If he could not sell the cotton by that time, his
creditors would take it over; and besides, he was held for any amount
of the debt above what the cotton would bring at a forced sale.

He was bluer than he had been since he lost that first good job nine
years ago. He went to the battered old trunk, opened the lid, and
lifted the fiddle; stood with it in his hands a moment, put it against
his shoulder and raised the bow. He was thinking of her, the girl left
alone down there on the ranch--still fighting it out with the desert,
the Mexicans, and the trailing calamities of this World War. He
dropped the bow, he could not play. And just as he was returning the
fiddle to his trunk there was a knock followed by the opening of the
door. A chambermaid's head pushed in.

"There's a man down in the office wants to see you," announced the girl.

"Who is it?" asked Bob.

"Dunno--old fellow with eyebrows like a hair brush--and a long linen
duster."

"I'll