"But that was before alfalfa and artesian wells," Dick smoothed for
him. "The time wasn't ripe for the Shorthorn. Only scrubs could
survive the droughts. They were strong in staying powers but light on
the scales. And refrigerator steamships hadn't been invented. That's
what revolutionized the game down there."

"Besides, I was a mere youngster," Graham added. "Though that meant
nothing much. There was a young German tackled it at the same time I
did, with a tenth of my capital. He hung it out, lean years, dry
years, and all. He's rated in seven figures now."

They turned their horses back for the Big House. Dick flirted his
wrist to see his watch.

"Lots of time," he assured his guest. "I'm glad you saw those
yearlings. There was one reason why that young German stuck it out. He
had to. You had your father's money to fall back on, and, I imagine
not only that your feet itched, but that your chief weakness lay in
that you could afford to solace the itching."

"Over there are the fish ponds," Dick said, indicating with a nod of
his head to the right an invisible area beyond the lilacs. "You'll
have plenty of opportunity to catch a mess of trout, or bass, or even
catfish. You see, I'm a miser. I love to make things work. There may
be a justification for the eight-hour labor day, but I make the work-
day of water just twenty-four hours' long. The ponds are in series,
according to the nature of the fish. But the water starts working up
in the mountains. It irrigates a score of mountain meadows before it
makes the plunge and is clarified to crystal clearness in the next few
rugged miles; and at the plunge from the highlands it generates half