estimated every expense, and allowed liberally for incidentals. He
figured the lowest probable price for cotton, and in addition discussed
the possibilities of failure.

"I feel sure," he concluded, definitely, "that I can put it through,
that I can make from fifty to a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in
profits on one crop. If you want to risk it and stake me, I'll go
fifty-fifty on the profits."

"No partnership for me," Crill shook his head vigorously. He had made
some figures on an envelope and sat scowling at them. He had a good
deal of idle money. It this crop paid out--and he felt reasonably sure
Bob would make it go--it would give him $10,000 interest on the
$100,000; and his half of the cotton seed would be worth at least
$10,000 more. Twenty thousand returns against nothing was worth some
risk.

"Besides," added Bob, "the lease itself, if cotton goes up, will be
worth fifty thousand next year."

"That's what Reedy Jenkins said," remarked the old gentleman, dryly.
"Just left here an hour ago--wanted to borrow money to pay the rent
this year and let the land lie idle."

Bob's heart beat uneasily. "Did you lend it to him?"

"No!" The old man almost spat the word out. "He owes me too much
already."

For two minutes, three, four, Jim Crill smoked and Bob waited, counting
the thump of his heartbeats in his temple.

"I'll let you have the hundred thousand," he said directly. "I've
watched you; I know an honest man when I see one."

Bob's spirits went up like a rocket; but his mind quickly veered round
to Reedy Jenkins.

"This will make Reedy Jenkins about the maddest man in America," he
remarked. He knew now that Reedy would fight him to the bitterest end.

Jim Crill grinned. "So'll Evy be mad. You fight Reedy, and I'll--run."

CHAPTER XIX

Imogene Chandler was washing the breakfast dishes out under the canopy
of arrow-weed roof, where they ate summer and winter. The job was
quickly done, for the breakfast service was very abbreviated. She took
a broad-brimmed straw hat from a nail on the corner post, and swinging
it in her hand, for the sun was yet scarcely over the rim of the Red
Buttes far to the east, went out across the field to where her father
was already at work.

March is the middle of spring in the Imperial Valley and already the
grass grew thick beside the water ditches, and leaves were full grown
on the cottonwood trees. The sunlight, soft through the dewy early