One day, in late March, he came into the store as the sun was setting. In such a village as ours, at such a time, the store becomes the club of the community. Misery, who loves company, spent many hours at the store. There was nothing to do on the range. Upon this particular afternoon we had listened to a new tale of disaster. Till now, although most of us had lost stock, and many had lost land as well, we had regarded health, the rude health of man living the primal life, as an inalienable possession. Our cattle and horses were dying, but we lived. We learned that diphtheria had entered Paradise. In those early days, before the antitoxin treatment of the disease, diphtheria in Southern California was the deadliest of plagues. It attacked children for the most part, and swept them away in battalions. I have seen whole families exterminated. And nothing, then as now, prevails against this scourge save prompt and sustained medical treatment. In Paradise we had neither doctor, nor nurse, nor drugs. San Lorenzo, the nearest town, lay twenty-six miles away. Pap shambled in, clicking his teeth and grinning. "Nice evenin'," he observed, taking his seat on his sugar barrel. "Puffec'ly lovely," replied the man who had brought the evil news. "Everything," he stretched out his lean hand,--"everything smilin' an' gay--an' merry as a marriage bell." Pap rubbed his talon-like hands together. "Boys," said he, "I done first-rate this afternoon--I done first- rate. I've made money, a wad of it--and don't you forget it." "You never allow us to forget it," said Ajax. "We all wish you would," he added pointedly. "Eh?" He stared at my brother. The other men in the store showed their teeth in a sort of pitiful, snarling grin. Each was sensible of a secret pleasure that somebody else had dared to bell the cat. My brother continued, curtly: "This is not the time nor the place for you to buck about what you've done and whom you've done. Under the present circumstances--you're an old man--what you've left undone ought to be engrossing your attention." "Meanin'?" Pap had glanced furtively from face to face, reading in each rough countenance derision and contempt. The masks which the poor wear in the presence of the rich were off. "I mean," Ajax replied, savagely--so savagely that the old man recoiled and nearly fell off the barrel--"I mean, Mr. Spooner, that the diphtheria has come to Paradise, and is likely to stay here so long as there is flesh for it to feed on." "The diptheery?" exclaimed Pap. Into his eyes--those dull grey eyes--flitted terror and horror. But Ajax saw nothing but what had festered so long in his own mind. "Aye--the diphtheria! You are rich, Mr. Spooner; you can follow your cattle into a healthier country than this. My advice to you is--Get!" The old man stared; then he slid off the barrel and shambled out of the store as little Sissy Leadham entered it. The child looked curiously at Andrew Spooner.