gathered up the reins, and sought a spoke on his side of the wagon; he
looked across at me with a gleam of humanity in his eyes--the first I had
seen there.

"It sure beats hell the way it hangs on," he remarked, and from that
minute I liked him. It was the first crumb of sympathy that had fallen to
me for days, and you can bet I appreciated it.

We got in, and he pulled a blanket over our knees and picked up the whip.
It wasn't a stylish turnout--I had seen farmers driving along the
railroad-track in rigs like it, and I was surprised at dad for keeping
such a layout. Fact is, I didn't think much of dad, anyway, about that
time.

"How far is it to the Bay State Ranch?" I asked.

"One hundred and forty miles, air-line," said he casually. "The train was
late, so I reckon we better stop over till morning. There's a town over
the hill, and a hotel that beats nothing a long way."

A hundred and forty miles from the station, "air-line," sounded to me like
a pretty stiff proposition to go up against; also, how was a fellow going
to put up at a hotel when he hadn't the coin? Would my mysterious guide
be shocked to learn that John A. Carleton's son and heir had landed in a
strange land without two-bits to his name? Jerusalem! I couldn't have paid
street-car fare down-town; I couldn't even have bought a paper on the
street. While I was remembering all the things a millionaire's son can't
do if he happens to be without a nickel in his pocket, we pulled up before
a place that, for the sake of propriety, I am willing to call a hotel; at
the time, I remember, I had another name for it.