of cotton could scarcely go lower. Bob had no
fear of that. Then what were the dangers? The chance of a water
shortage was remote. There had been little trouble about water. Of
course bad farming could spoil a crop; but Lou Wing was an expert
cotton grower, and you could trust a Chinaman's vigilance. With Lou as
a partner he could be sure the crop would receive proper attention.

"It seems good!" Bob walked out of his room on to the balcony that ran
the length of the hotel and stood overlooking the twinkling lights of
the town. Calexico was getting to be quite a little city, and the
string of lights were flung out for half a mile to the east and north.
Across the line the high-arched sign of the Red Owl already winked
alluringly.

He looked at his watch. It was only a quarter past eight. He turned
back to his room, took his violin from the battered trunk, went to the
garage, and in fifteen minutes was chugging south between the rows of
cottonwood and willows that stood dim guardians in the night against
the desert.

Imogene Chandler heard the machine coming. She put on her new spring
coat and came out into the yard. The night was a little cool, and that
new coat was the first article of wearing apparel she had bought for
herself in three years.

"I'm glad you brought your fiddle again," she said as Bob came into the
yard. She was bare-headed, and her hair showed loose and wavy in the
starlight. "I've felt rather lilty all day." She snapped her fingers
and danced round in a circle. "Just a little hippety-hoppety," she
laughed, dropping down upon the bench. "Sit down and play to us--me
and this wonderful night."

"I want to talk first." He laid the fiddle across his knees. In spite
of the spell of the desert, figures were still running through his head.

"How like a man!" she said, mockingly. "And is it about yourself?"

"Of course," he replied, soberly. "You don't think I'd waste gasolene
to come down here to talk about any other man, do you?"

"Before you begin on that absorbing subject," she bantered, "tell me,
will our cotton now sell for enough to pay Mr. Crill that note?"

"Yes, but you are not going to sell it. He has extended the note
another six months. Cotton is going up this fall."

"Isn't that great!" she exclaimed. "Here we have money enough for
another crop, and can speculate on last year's cotton by holding for
higher prices. Why, man, if it should go to ten cents we'd c