doctor--of heart failure. Few whites can smoke
the "pipe" with impunity, and he was not of their number. The wounded
had been carried away, and, despite the strenuous endeavours of the
police, not one was arrested, which proves that there is honour
amongst these yellow-faced thieves, for a handful of gold-pieces and
"no questions asked" was well known in Chinatown to be the price
offered for any information that would lead to the capture of one or
more of the gang.

When we reached our hotel we found The Babe patiently awaiting us. His
complexion was slightly the worse for wear, but his eyes were as blue
as ever and almost as guileless. How wide they opened when he listened
to our story! How indignant he waxed when he learned that we had
condemned him, the son of an archdeacon, as an opium fiend. However,
he was very penitent, and returned with us to the ranch, where he dug
post-holes for a couple of months, and behaved like a model babe. Ajax
wrote to the archdeacon, and in due season The Babe returned to
England, where he wisely enlisted as a trooper in a smart cavalry
regiment, a corps that his grandfather had commanded. The pipeclay was
in his marrow, and he became in time rough-riding sergeant of the
regiment. I am told that soon he will be offered a commission.

This story contains two morals: both so obvious that they need not be
recorded.

XIII

THE BARON

Of the many queer characters who took up land in the brush hills near
our ranch none excited greater tongue-wagging than the Baron. The
squatters called him the Baron. He signed his name--I had to witness
his signature--Rene Bourgueil.

The Baron built himself a bungalow on a small hill overlooking a
pretty lake which dried up in summer and smelled evilly. Also, he
spent money in planting out a vineyard and orchard, and in making a
garden. What he did not know about ranching in Southern California
would have filled an encyclopaedia, but what he did know about nearly
everything else filled us and our neighbours with an ever-increasing
amazement and curiosity.

Why did such a man bury himself in the brush hills of San Lorenzo
County?

More, he was past middle-age: sixty-five at least, not a sportsman,
nor a naturalist, but obviously a _gentilhomme_, with the manners
of one accustomed to the best society.

Of society, however, he spoke mordant words--

"Soziety in Europe, to-day," he said to me, shortly after his arrival,
"ees a big monkey