"Am I really going to see that fascinating person?" sighed Polly. "I'm beginning to think he's just hot air." "Mighty little hot air about old Herrick," chuckled Matt. "All wool and a yard wide, I'd say." "Well, he is. That's more than I'd say about a good many artistic chaps," remarked Mrs. Van. "Most of 'em I hate--they're so crooked. The Lord starts 'em weak and the women finish 'em. He sure can play, though. Regular pictures--some of the things he composes. I can see the cows grazing on the hills in some of 'em." "How queer of him to stay down here!" said the girl, wonderingly. "Why?" demanded Scott, warmly. "It seems to me that a country like this has a lot more to offer that kind of man than your cities have. What's New York or Chicago got to give him like these grim old mountains, and the lonesome little canyons with the cows feeding up and down hunting for water holes, and the Mexican folks with their soft voices and fancy manners and all the rest of it?" "Cows are queer," continued Mrs. Van, pursuing her own thought cheerfully. "Ever see the old ones get between you and the calves when you rode by 'em? Awful kind of human, they are." Scott chuckled. "One summer I was up in New Mexico on a ranch when they were rounding up. They brought in the cattle from all over the place; for days they were getting in strays out of the canyons. Among them were two old bulls. Funny old codgers they were, and as much alike as two peas in a pod--fat, chunky, ragged looking old rascals. "Well, all during the round-up those old boys stayed together--in the bull pen and out. We named them Tweedledum and Tweedledee. By George, after they'd been turned out on the range again, I was riding down a canyon about a couple of miles from the ranch, and who should I see but those two old pals, hoofing it together as chummy as two old men walking in the park." "Well, how's the chow?" Johnson's voice came from the doorway. "Not much left, I should say, judging from the happy faces I see around me." "Come in, Tommy, I'm just gettin' something ready for that Mexican, but there's plenty for you," said Mrs. Van. "Where'd you put the feller?" "In Hard's office," said Scott. "Will you cart him his grub, Matt?" "You said I might. I want to," protested Polly. "Certainly." Scott handed her the key ceremoniously. "You've earned the right to have your own way to-night, but Matt goes with you. He's not above throttling you to make a getaway." "It's a funny world," mused Polly, as she walked along beside Matt, who carried the tray balanced aloft on one outstretched palm. "Three weeks ago I was going to teas at the Blackstone; now I'm carrying grub to a Mexican bandit with the assistance of a fireman. How awfully well you carry that tray!" she said, admiringly. "Sure! Learned to do that one winter in Minneapolis when I was out of a job. Handy sort of thing to know."