Ranching for Sylvia. Harold Bindloss

low trees. Farther back were four very small wooden churches. It was unpleasantly hot, though a fresh breeze blew clouds of dust through the place.

      "I've seen enough," said Edgar. "The Butte isn't pretty; we'll assume it's prosperous, though I haven't noticed much sign of activity yet. Let's go to the hotel."

      When they reached it, several untidy loungers sat half asleep in the shade of the veranda, and though they obstructed the approach to the entrance none of them moved. Passing behind them, George opened a door filled in with wire-mesh, and they entered a hot room with a bare floor, furnished with a row of plain wooden chairs. After they had rung a bell for several minutes, a man appeared and looked at them with languid interest from behind a short counter.

      "Can you put us up?" George inquired.

      "Sure," was the answer.

      The man flung down a labeled key, twisted round his register, which was fitted in a swivel frame, and handed George a pen.

      "We want two rooms," Edgar objected.

      "Can't help that. We've only got one."

      "I suppose we'd better take it. Where can one get a drink?"

      "Bar," replied the other, indicating a gap in a neighboring partition.

      "They're laconic in this country," Edgar remarked.

      "Ever since I arrived in it, I've felt as if I were a mere piece of baggage, to be hustled along anyway without my wishes counting."

      "You'll get used to it after a while," George consoled him.

      Entering the dark bar, Edgar refreshed himself with several ice-cooled drinks, served in what he thought were unusually small glasses. He felt somewhat astonished when he paid for them.

      "Thirst's expensive on the prairie," he commented.

      "Pump outside," drawled the attendant. "It's rather mean water."

      They went upstairs to a very scantily furnished, doubled-bedded room.

       George, warned by previous experience, glanced around.

      "There's soap and a towel, anyway; but I don't see any water," he remarked. "I'll take the jar; they'll have a rain-tank somewhere about."

      Edgar did not answer him. He was looking out of the open window, and now that there was little to obstruct his view, the prospect interested him. It had been a wet spring, and round the vast half-circle he commanded the prairie ran back to the horizon, brightly green, until its strong coloring gave place in the distance to soft neutral tones. It was blotched with crimson flowers; in the marshy spots there were streaks of purple; broad squares of darker wheat checkered the sweep of grass, and dwarf woods straggled across it in broken lines. In one place was the gleam of a little lake. Over it all there hung a sky of dazzling blue, across which great rounded cloud-masses rolled.

      Edgar looked around as George came in with the water.

      "That's great!" he exclaimed, indicating the prairie; and then, turning toward the wooden town, he added: "What a frightful mess man can make of pretty things! Still, I've no doubt the people who built the Butte are proud of it."

      "If you talk to them in that style, you'll soon discover their opinion," George laughed; "but I don't think it would be wise."

      Soon afterward a bell rang for supper, and going down to a big room, they found seats at a table which had several other occupants. Two of them, who appeared to be railroad-hands, were simply dressed in trousers and slate-colored shirts, and when they rested their elbows on the tablecloth, they left grimy smears. George thought the third man of the party, who was neatly attired, must be the station-agent; the fourth was unmistakably a newly-arrived Englishman. As soon as they were seated, a very smart young woman came up and rattled off the names of various unfamiliar dishes.

      "I think I'll have a steak; I know what that is," Edgar told her.

      She withdrew, and presently surrounded him with an array of little plates, at which he glanced dubiously before he attacked the thin, hard steak with a nickeled knife which failed to make a mark on it. When he made a more determined effort, it slid away from him, sweeping some greasy fried potatoes off his plate, and he grew hot under the stern gaze of the girl, who reappeared with some coffee he had not ordered.

      "Perhaps you had better take it away before I do more damage, and let me have some fish," he said humbly.

      "Another time you'll say what you want at first. You can't prospect right through the menu," she rebuked him.

      In the meanwhile George had been describing his companions on the train to one of the men opposite.

      "He told me he was located in the district, but I didn't learn his name, and he didn't get off here," he explained. "Do you know him?"

      "Sure," said the other. "It's Alan Grant, of Poplar, 'bout eighteen miles back. Guess he went on to the next station—a little farther, but it's easier driving, now they're dumping straw on the trail."

      "Putting straw on the road?" Edgar broke in. "Why are they doing that?"

      "You'll see, if you drive out north," the man answered shortly. Then he turned to his better-dressed companion. "What are you going to do with that carload of lumber we got for Grant?"

      "Send the car on to Benton."

      "She's billed here."

      "Can't help that—the road's mistake. Grant ordered all his stuff to

       Benton. What he says goes."

      This struck George as significant—it was only a man of importance whose instructions would be treated with so much deference. Then the agent turned to Edgar.

      "What do you think of this country?"

      "The country's very nice. So far as I've seen them, I can't say as much for the towns; they might be prettier."

      "Might be prettier?" exclaimed the agent. "If they're not good enough for you, why did you come here?"

      "I'm not sure it was a very judicious move. But, you see, I didn't know what the place was like; and, after all, an experience of this kind is supposed to be bracing."

      The agent ignored Edgar after this. He talked to George, and elicited the information that the latter meant to farm. Then he got up, followed by two of the others, and the remaining man with the English appearance turned to George diffidently.

      "Do you happen to want a teamster?" he asked.

      "I believe I'll want two," was the answer. "But I'm afraid I'll have to hire Canadians."

      The man's face fell. He looked anxious, and George remembered having seen a careworn woman tearfully embracing him before their steamer sailed. Her shabby clothes and despairing face had roused George's sympathy.

      "Well," said the man dejectedly, "that's for you to decide; but I've driven horses most of my life, and until I get used to things I'd be reasonable about the pay. I was told these little places were the best to strike a job in; but, so far as I can find out, there's not much chance here."

      George felt sorry for him. He suddenly made up his mind.

      "What are farm teamsters getting now?" he asked a man who was leaving an adjacent table.

      "Thirty dollars a month," was the answer.

      "Thanks," said George, turning again to the Englishman. "Be ready to start with us to-morrow. I'll take you at thirty dollars; but if I don't get my value out of you, we'll have to part."

      "No fear of that, sir," replied the other, in a tone of keen satisfaction.

      When they got outside, Edgar looked at George with a smile.

      "I'm glad you engaged the fellow," he said; "but considering that you'll have to teach him, were you not a little rash?"

      "I'll find out by and by." George paused, and continued gravely: "It's