authority, "be frank, Jim. Which is it? Never mind what things you've
told IN THERE, tell ME the truth about yourself. Can I help you in any
way? Believe me, I should like to. We have been old friends, whatever
difference in our luck, I am yours still."

Thus adjured, the redoubtable Jim, in a hoarse whisper, with a furtive
eye on the house, admitted that he was traveling for an itinerant
peddler, whom he expected to join later in the settlement; that he
had his own methods of disposing of his wares, and (darkly) that his
proprietor and the world generally had better not interfere with him;
that (with a return to more confidential lightness) he had already
"worked the Wild West Injin" business so successfully as to dispose of
his wares, particularly in yonder house, and might do even more if not
prematurely and wantonly "blown upon," "gone back on," or "given away."

"But wouldn't you like to settle down on some bit of land like this, and
improve it for yourself?" said Clarence. "All these valley terraces are
bound to rise in value, and meantime you would be independent. It could
be managed, Jim. I think I could arrange it for you," he went on, with a
slight glow of youthful enthusiasm. "Write to me at Peyton's ranch,
and I'll see you when I come back, and we'll hunt up something for
you together." As Jim received the proposition with a kind of gloomy
embarrassment, he added lightly, with a glance at the farmhouse, "It
might be near HERE, you know; and you'd have pleasant neighbors, and
even eager listeners to your old adventures."

"You'd better come in a minit before you go," said Jim, clumsily evading
a direct reply. Clarence hesitated a moment, and then yielded. For an
equal moment Jim Hooker was torn between secret jealousy of his old
comrade's graces and a desire to present them as familiar associations