cowboy vernacular which had become second nature
to him--"Then it wouldn't be absurd to proclaim myself king some day?
Just imagine it, Frenchy;--Don Madariaga, the First. . . . The worst of
it all is that I would also be the last, for the China will not give me
a son. . . . She is a weak cow!"

The fame of his vast territories and his wealth in stock reached even to
Buenos Aires. Every one knew of Madariaga by name, although very few had
seen him. When he went to the Capital, he passed unnoticed because of
his country aspect--the same leggings that he was used to wearing in the
fields, his poncho wrapped around him like a muffler above which rose
the aggressive points of a necktie, a tormenting ornament imposed by his
daughters, who in vain arranged it with loving hands that he might look
a little more respectable.

One day he entered the office of the richest merchant of the capital.

"Sir, I know that you need some young bulls for the European market, and
I have come to sell you a few."

The man of affairs looked haughtily at the poor cowboy. He might explain
his errand to one of the employees, he could not waste his time on such
small matters. But the malicious grin on the rustic's face awoke his
curiosity.

"And how many are you able to sell, my good man?"

"About thirty thousand, sir."

It was not necessary to hear more. The supercilious merchant sprang from
his desk, and obsequiously offered him a seat.

"You can be no other than Don Madariaga."

"At the service of God and yourself, sir," he responded in the manner of
a Spanish countryman.

That was the most glorious moment of his existence.

In the outer office of the Directors of the Bank, the clerks offered him
a seat until the personage the other side of the door should deign to
receive him. But scarcely was his name announced than that same director
ran to admit him, and the employee was stupefied to hear the ranchman
say, by way of greeting, "I have come to draw out three hundred thousand
dollars. I have abundant pasturage, and I wish to buy a ranch or two in
order to stock them."

His arbitrary and contradictory character weighed upon the inhabitants
of his lands with both cruel and good-natured tyranny. No vagabond ever
passed by the ranch without being rudely assailed by its owner from the
outset.

"Don't tell me any of your hard-luck stories, friend," he would yell as
if he were going to beat him. "Under the shed is a skinned beast;
cut