It was the second day after his visit to La Mision Perdida. He was
sitting by his desk, at sunset, in the faint afterglow of the
western sky, which flooded the floor through the open door. He was
writing, but presently lifted his head, with an impatient air, and
called out, "Harrison!"

The shadow of Dr. West's foreman appeared at the door.

"Who's that you're talking to?"

"Tramp, Sir."

"Hire him, or send him about his business. Don't stand gabbling
there."

"That's just it, sir. He won't hire for a week or a day. He says
he'll do an odd job for his supper and a shakedown, but no more."

"Pack him off! . . . Stay. . . . What's he like?"

"Like the rest of 'em, only a little lazier, I reckon."

"Umph! Fetch him in."

The foreman disappeared, and returned with the tramp already known
to the reader. He was a little dirtier and grimier than on the
morning he had addressed Maruja at La Mision Perdida; but he wore
the same air of sullen indifference, occasionally broken by furtive
observation. His laziness--or weariness--if the term could