“Percival Henry J. Tompkins, entirely at your service, madam. May I solicit the pleasure of your company in a short walk, to breathe the inspiring evening air and view the noble aspect of the Creator’s handiwork in the heavens?” “Gosh!” murmured Hassayamp in awe. Miss Gilman gave Tompkins a curious glance, as though wishing to peer past those tinted goggles; a smile was in her eyes, as she made demure assent. “Thank you, I’d enjoy showing you the sights. You just arrived today?” “Only this afternoon, madam,” returned Tompkins. “Mr. Foster, if you apprehend any specimens of _crotalus cerastes_ in the near future, I should be glad if you would confine and preserve them for me.” “I’d sure like to, Puffesser,” said Hassayamp, blinking, “but we aint got a bug in the house. If you was to go up to Garcia’s, you might have some luck.” Tompkins waved his hand, and strode off beside Miss Gilman, who seemed rather red in the face. Neither of them broke the silence. They passed down the street, came to the fast-disappearing rows of ancient buildings, relics of boom days, and presently were walking along the open desert, following the white road that went straight as a die across the horizon. The silence became oppressive, until suddenly Tompkins chuckled and spoke in his natural voice. It was a drawling, rather whimsical voice, and drew a swift glance from the girl. “Our friend Hassayamp is a human phonograph,” he said. “You’ll go too far one of these days,” said Miss Gilman. Tompkins stopped short and stared at her. “Eh? Just what do you mean?” “Nonsense!” exclaimed the girl sharply, yet with a laugh in her eyes. “That red hair and your natural voice and the shape of your head don’t go with your assumed character, Mr. Tompkins. Take off those glasses and let me see what you look like. And stop fidgeting with that pipe in your pocket. Take it out and smoke. I’d like you to.” Tompkins broke into a laugh, reached up and removed the goggles, and met the curious regard of Miss Gilman. “What do you wear them for?” she demanded. “You look better without ’em.” “Protection,” he drawled, bringing forth his pipe. “You’re an observant young woman, but I trust fervently that you’ll keep your observations to yourself. I look very much like another man, and do not care to be recognized for him—or mistaken for him.” The girl laughed. “You don’t look like a criminal, Mr. Tompkins!” “I’m not. I’m really a mammalogist. Now, everybody here is positive that a bug-hunter is crazy, so I’m making it easy all around by playing up to the part. You, however, don’t look like a chicken-raiser.” “But I am—at least, that’s what I’m going to be. I’ve come from Los Angeles to start a ranch here. Land is cheap; there’s no fog; the climate is ideal, and for a while I can sell all I can raise right here in town.” “D’you mean it?” asked credulously.