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At last appetite was satisfied. The lieutenant had produced his cigar case, Dick was filling his briar-root pipe with tobacco from the humidor. The latter spoke:
“Say, Ches, we were talking about New York. Do you want me to give you a toast on that modern Babylon?”
“Sure, old man, go ahead! You know I haven’t lost my interest in old Gotham, by any manner of means. It may the a modern Babylon. But to me it is none the less the greatest of American cities.”
“That’s just the trouble,” said Dick, seriously. “It is too great. There identities are swallowed up. Individualism cannot survive. It is all one great composite.”
“Well, let us hear the toast.”
Dick raised his cup of coffee and said: “Very well, here it is; here is my opinion of New York:
‘Vulgar in manners; overfed,
Over-dressed and under-bred;
Heartless, godless, hell’s delight,
Rude by day and lewd by night.
Bedwarfed the man, enlarged the brute;
Ruled by boss and prostitute.
Purple robed and pauper clad;
Raving, rotten, money mad;
A squirming herd in Mammon’s mesh;
A wilderness of human flesh;
Crazed by avarice, lust and rum—
New York! thy name’s delirium.’.rdquo;
“Great Heavens, old man,” exclaimed Munson, when Dick had finished, “you are severe, to say the least.”
Willoughby laughed good-naturedly as he passed the match box to his friend.
“Not severe, only truthful,” he said. “You see, in New York no man dares think for himself. Everything is controlled by a machine-appointed chairman, secretary and committee, and you must hear the resolutions read before you know the doctrine you are perforce to advocate.”
Then he lit his pipe and rose from the table.
“Now, I have a lot of things to attend to, old fellow,” he resumed. “Make yourself comfortable. Here’s a bunch of Eastern newspapers—oh, I read them regularly, haven’t got rid of that bad habit yet. I’ll tell Sing Ling to have lunch ready on the stroke of noon. Then we’ll be in good time to start out for the Rancho La Siesta. So long!”
CHAPTER V—At La Siesta
SOON after one o’clock Dick Willoughby and Chester Munson were again in the saddle. They galloped along the foothills for some time in silence. But coming to the boulder-strewn wash of a mountain stream, they had perforce to rein their horses to a walk. Conversation was now possible.
“Dick, will you give me a job as a cowboy if I quit the army?” asked Munson abruptly.
“Surest thing you know,” replied Dick. “But why try to kid me like that?”
“Oh,” laughed the other, “I am not jesting.”
“Well, by gad, if you feel that way already, the chances are you will write out your resignation when you get back to the shack tonight.”
“You mean by that—”
“I mean,” said Dick, smiling benignly at his friend, “that when you have once seen Grace Darlington you will feel like browsing on the California range until you have learned to throw a riata.”
“Oh, it is not the thought of any mere girl that will influence my decision. I feel like getting back to Nature—back to the soil—back to a life of untrammeled freedom.”
“Back to unspoiled womanhood,” added Dick sententiously.
“Well, you’ve certainly got my curiosity aroused over these young ladies at La Siesta. How much farther do we have to go?”
“Within an hour, sir, within the hour, my lord, shall you see the lady fair. But remember,” Dick went on banteringly, “that you are not to practise any riata-throwing on Miss Merle Farnsworth.”
“I understand. But we won’t fall out over her. You may have your beautiful brunette. I have always been partial to blondes.”
“In the plural number,” grinned Dick. “But Grace Darlington will dim the light of all your previous flames. She is the most perfect blonde you have ever yet encountered.”
“You are certainly enthusiastic—for a disinterested party.”
“Well, you’ll say the same thing, Ches, my boy, when you see her.”
It was not yet four o’clock when they approached the Rancho La Siesta. The house was of a style quite unusual in California—a miniature castle that might have been planned by some European architect of renown. It stood amid noble oak trees, old and gnarled and of gigantic size, but not too numerous to hide the architectural features of the building. To the rear the trees grew more thickly till they finally merged into one great forest that covered the lower ridge of the mountain beyond. Far up, just within the timber line, could be seen the red-tiled roof of a house which Dick told his friend was the home of a Mr. Ricardo Robles. Beneath the forest, the gently undulating lands sloped away to a considerable stream that dashed down from one of the mountain canyons and debouched into the great valley.
“Whew!” exclaimed Munson admiringly, as they rode up and turned their horses over to an attendant. “Some swell architecture around here! Is this your work, Dick?”
“Oh, no!” replied Willoughby. “I had nothing to do with it. But I do like the architectural lines of Mrs. Darlington’s home. She’s English and has English tastes, and transplanted ideas are not always successful in a new country. But in this case the building just seems to fit the scenery. It has always delighted me.”
“It is certainly beautiful,” concurred Munson as they walked along a winding graveled pathway that climbed the gentle slope and led to the portico of the mansion.
Around them were gay beds of flowers dotting the greensward. Almost hiding the columns of the portico were climbing roses, one bush СКАЧАТЬ