His own personal tastes and habits were as severe and practical as his business: the little wing he inhabited contained only his office, his living room or library, his bedroom, and a bath-room. This last inconsistent luxury was due to a certain cat-like cleanliness which was part of his nature. His iron-gray hair--a novelty in this country of young Americans--was always scrupulously brushed, and his linen spotless. A slightly professional and somewhat old-fashioned respectability in his black clothes was also characteristic. His one concession to the customs of his neighbors was the possession of two or three of the half-broken and spirited mustangs of the country, which he rode with the fearlessness, if not the perfect security and ease, of a native. Whether the subjection of this lawless and powerful survival of a wild and unfettered nature around him was part of his plan, or whether it was only a lingering trait of some younger prowess, no one knew; but his grim and decorous figure, contrasting with the picturesque and flowing freedom of the horse he bestrode, was a frequent spectacle in road and field. It was the second day after his visit to La Mision Perdida. He was sitting by his desk, at sunset, in the faint afterglow of the western sky, which flooded the floor through the open door. He was writing, but presently lifted his head, with an impatient air, and called out, "Harrison!" The shadow of Dr. West's foreman appeared at the door. "Who's that you're talking to?" "Tramp, Sir." "Hire him, or send him about his business. Don't stand gabbling there." "That's just it, sir. He won't hire for a week or a day. He says he'll do an odd job for his supper and a shakedown, but no more." "Pack him off! ... Stay.... What's he like?" "Like the rest of 'em, only a little lazier, I reckon." "Umph! Fetch him in." The foreman disappeared, and returned with the tramp already known to the reader. He was a little dirtier and grimier than on the morning he had addressed Maruja at La Mision Perdida; but he wore the same air of sullen indifference, occasionally broken by furtive observation. His laziness--or weariness--if the term could describe the lassitude of perfect physical condition, seemed to have increased; and he leaned against the door as the Doctor regarded him with slow contempt. The silence continuing, he deliberately allowed himself to slip down into a sitting position in the doorway, where he remained. "You seem to have been born tired," said the Doctor, grimly. "Yes." "What have you got to say for yourself?" "I told HIM," said the tramp, nodding his head towards the foreman, "what I'd do for a supper and a bed. I don't want anything but that." "And if you don't get what you want on your own conditions, what'll you do?" asked the Doctor, dryly. "Go." "Where did you come from?" "States." "Where are you going?" "On." "Leave him to me," said Dr. West to his foreman. The man smiled, and withdrew.