The Greatest Works of Earl Derr Biggers (Illustrated Edition). Earl Derr Biggers

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СКАЧАТЬ answered the old man.

      "I wonder if I might leave this suitcase in your check-room for a while?" the boy inquired.

      "Check-room, hell," replied the old man. "Just throw her down anywhere. Ain't lookin' fer a room, I suppose. Make you a special rate."

      "No," said Eden. "I'm sorry."

      "'Sall right," answered the proprietor. "Not many are."

      "I'd like to find the office of the Eldorado Times," Eden informed him.

      "Round corner on First," murmured the old man, deep in his pink newspaper again.

      Bob Eden went to the corner, and turned off. His feet at once left Eldorado's solitary sidewalk for soft crunching sand. He passed a few buildings even meaner than those on Main Street, a plumber's shop, a grocer's, and came to a little yellow shack which bore on its window the fading legend: "The Eldorado Times. Job Printing Neatly Done." There was no light inside, and crossing a narrow, dilapidated porch, he saw a placard on the door. Straining his eyes in the dusk, he read:

      "Back in an hour—God knows why.

      Will Holley."

      Smiling, Eden returned to the Desert Edge. "How about dinner?" he inquired.

      "Wonderin' about it myself," admitted the old man. "We don't serve meals here. Lose a little less that way."

      "But there must be a restaurant—"

      "Sure there is. This is an up-to-date town." He nodded over his shoulder. "Down beyond the bank—the Oasis Cafe."

      Thanking him, Bob Eden departed. Behind unwashed windows he found the Oasis dispensing its dubious cheer. A long high counter and a soiled mirror running the length of it suggested that in other days this had been an oasis indeed.

      The boy climbed on to one of the perilously high stools. At his right, too close for comfort, sat a man in overalls and jumper, with a week's growth of beard on his lean hard face. At his left, equally close but somehow not so much in the way, was a trim girl in khaki riding breeches and blouse.

      A youth made up to resemble a motion-picture sheik demanded his order, and from a soiled menu he chose the Oasis Special—"steak and onions, French fries, bread and butter and coffee. Eighty cents." The sheik departed languidly.

      Awaiting the special, Bob Eden glanced into the smoky mirror at the face of the girl beside him. Not so bad, even in that dim reflection. Corn yellow hair curling from under the brim of a felt hat; a complexion that no beauty parlor had originated. He held his left elbow close so that she might have more room for the business that engrossed her.

      His dinner arrived, a plenteous platter of food—but no plate. He glanced at his neighbors. Evidently plates were an affectation frowned upon in the Oasis. Taking up a tarnished knife and fork, he pushed aside the underbrush of onions and came face to face with his steak.

      First impressions are important, and Bob Eden knew at once that this was no meek, complacent opponent that confronted him. The steak looked back at him with an air of defiance that was amply justified by what followed. After a few moments of unsuccessful battling, he summoned the sheik. "How about a steel knife?" he inquired.

      "Only got three and they're all in use," the waiter replied.

      Bob Eden resumed the battle, his elbows held close, his muscles swelling. With set teeth and grim face he bore down and cut deep. There was a terrific screech as his knife skidded along the platter, and to his horror he saw the steak rise from its bed of gravy and onions and fly from him. It traveled the grimy counter for a second, then dropped on to the knees of the girl and thence to the floor.

      Eden turned to meet her blue eyes filled with laughter. "Oh, I'm so sorry," he said. "I thought it was a steak, and it seems to be a lap dog."

      "And I hadn't any lap," she cried. She looked down at her riding breeches. "Can you ever forgive me? I might have caught it for you. It only goes to show—women should be womanly."

      "I wouldn't have you any different," Bob Eden responded gallantly. He turned to the sheik. "Bring me something a little less ferocious," he ordered.

      "How about the pot roast?" asked the youth.

      "Well, how about it?" Eden repeated. "Fetch it along and I'll fight another round. I claim a foul on that one. And say—bring this young woman a napkin."

      "A what? A napkin. We ain't got any. I'll bring her a towel."

      "Oh, no—please don't," cried the girl. "I'm all right, really."

      The sheik departed.

      "Somehow," she added to Eden. "I think it wiser not to introduce an Oasis towel into this affair."

      "You're probably right," he nodded. "I'll pay for the damage, of course."

      She was still smiling. "Nonsense. I ought to pay for the steak. It wasn't your fault. One needs long practice to eat in the crowded arena of the Oasis."

      He looked at her, his interest growing every minute. "You've had long practice?" he inquired.

      "Oh, yes. My work often brings me this way."

      "Your—er—your work?"

      "Yes. Since your steak seems to have introduced us, I may tell you I'm with the moving pictures."

      Of course, thought Eden. The desert was filled with movie people these days. "Ah—have I ever seen you in the films?" he ventured.

      She shrugged. "You have not—and you never will. I'm not an actress. My job's much more interesting. I'm a location finder."

      Bob Eden's pot roast arrived, mercifully cut into small pieces by some blunt instrument behind the scenes. "A location finder. I ought to know what that is."

      "You certainly ought to. It's just what it sounds like. I travel about hunting backgrounds. By the Vandeventer Trail to Pinon Flat, down to the Salton Sea or up to the Morongos—all the time trying to find something new, something the dear old public will mistake for Algeria, Araby, the South Seas."

      "Sounds mighty interesting."

      "It is, indeed. Particularly when one loves this country as I do."

      "You were born here, perhaps?"

      "Oh, no. I came out with dad to Doctor Whitcomb's—it's five miles from here, just beyond the Madden ranch—some years ago. When—when dad left me I had to get a job, and—but look here, I'm telling you the story of my life."

      "Why not?" asked Eden. "Women and children always confide in me. I've got such a fatherly face. By the way, this coffee is terrible."

      "Yes, isn't it?" she agreed. "What will you have for dessert? There are two kinds of pie—Apple, and the other's out. Make your selection."

      "I've made it," he replied. "I'm taking the one that's out." He demanded his check. "Now, if you'll let me pay for your dinner—"

      "Nothing of the sort," she protested.

      "But СКАЧАТЬ