washed before going to bed, apparently, and the bowls were ringed
with a dark sediment which the hard, alkaline water had not
dissolved. Shutting the door on this disorder, he turned back to
the kitchen, took Mahailey's tin basin, doused his face and head
in cold water, and began to plaster down his wet hair.

Old Mahailey herself came in from the yard, with her apron full
of corn-cobs to start a fire in the kitchen stove. She smiled at
him in the foolish fond way she often had with him when they were
alone.

"What air you gittin' up for a-ready, boy? You goin' to the
circus before breakfast? Don't you make no noise, else you'll
have 'em all down here before I git my fire a-goin'."

"All right, Mahailey." Claude caught up his cap and ran out of
doors, down the hillside toward the barn. The sun popped up over
the edge of the prairie like a broad, smiling face; the light
poured across the close-cropped August pastures and the hilly,
timbered windings of Lovely Creek, a clear little stream with a
sand bottom, that curled and twisted playfully about through the
south section of the big Wheeler ranch. It was a fine day to go
to the circus at Frankfort, a fine day to do anything; the sort
of day that must, somehow, turn out well.

Claude backed the little Ford car out of its shed, ran it up to
the horse-tank, and began to throw water on the mud-crusted
wheels and windshield. While he was at work the two hired men,
Dan and Jerry, came shambling down the hill to feed the stock.
Jerry was grumbling and swearing about something, but Claude