"Cribbed," was Ernestine's judgment, as the laughter died away.

"Sure," Dick agreed. "I got it from the _Rancher and Stockman_,
that got it from the _Swine Breeders' Journal_, that got it from
the _Western Advocate_, that got it from _Public Opinion_,
that got it, undoubtedly, from the little girl herself, or, rather
from her Sunday School teacher. For that matter I am convinced it was
first printed in _Our Dumb Animals_."

The bronze gong rang out its second call, and Paula, one arm around
Dick, the other around Rita, led the way into the house, while,
bringing up the rear, Bert Wainwright showed Lute Ernestine a new
tango step.

"One thing, Thayer," Dick said in an aside, after releasing himself
from the girls, as they jostled in confusion where they met Thayer and
Naismith at the head of the stairway leading down to the dining room.
"Before you leave us, cast your eyes over those Merinos. I really have
to brag about them, and American sheepmen will have to come to them.
Of course, started with imported stock, but I've made a California
strain that will make the French breeders sit up. See Wardman and take
your pick. Get Naismith to look them over with you. Stick half a dozen
of them in your train-load, with my compliments, and let your Idaho
sheepmen get a line on them."

They seated at a table, capable of indefinite extension, in a long,
low dining room that was a replica of the hacienda dining rooms of the
Mexican land-kings of old California. The floor was of large brown
tiles, the beamed ceiling and the walls were whitewashed, and the
huge, undecorated, cement fireplace was an achievement in massiveness