Peter, shoved ahead of the little procession, did not hesitate. He dropped his head between his knees and moved very slowly, but none the less surely onward. The walking was almost incredibly difficult. The very desert underfoot seemed in motion. New ridges rose before their burning, half blinded eyes. The uproar was that of a hurricane roaring through a forest. Now Roger would stagger to his knees: now Charley. But Peter, lifting and planting his little feet gingerly and exactly, never stumbled. Panting, sweating, Roger after what seemed hours of this going halted Peter with some difficulty and putting his lips close to Charley's ear called, "Having a pleasant walk to the county fair, my dear?" "Of its kind, it's perfect!" shrieked Charley in return and not to be outdone. As if thoroughly disgusted by such persiflage, Peter brayed and started on without waiting to be urged. A moment later the footing became firmer and Peter led the way around a rock heap and buried his nose in a tiny pool that seemed thick with sand. Roger sighed with deep relief. He had seen the desert strike too often now to face her ugly moods with full equanimity. There was no real shelter from the storm here. But it was vastly better than the open desert. They found a hollowed rock facing the spring, just big enough for the two of them to crouch with their backs against it. Although the sand sifted in on them constantly, they were at least away from the fury of the wind. There was water a-plenty at hand and they could bide their time. Peter established himself with his forefeet in the water, his tail to the storm and appeared to go to sleep. For a time, Roger and Charley were glad to sit in silence, recovering their breath. But finally Roger stretched his cramped legs with a sigh. "Charley, I find desert life just a bit strenuous," he said. Charley wiped her face vigorously with her bandanna and nodded. "So do I. But I like it. I think I must like the constant fight and the awful beauty. There's nothing else here." "Have you anything in you but Anglo-Saxon blood?" asked Roger. "No," replied Charley. "That accounts for your loving it, I believe. The Anglo-Saxons are the trail makers for civilization. And by Jove, if any two people on earth are making trails it's you and Dick." "You're Anglo-Saxon yourself. What is your work but trail making?" "We aren't all trail makers!" Roger gave a half cynical chuckle. "You know I'm solving the labor question." "With old Rabbit Tail's gang?" "Hardly! Yet, by golly, Charley, I don't know but what I'm developing a typical labor situation down here. The Indian gang is working as a favor, you understand, and not from any necessity." Charley laughed. "If it weren't for you inventors, we all could revert comfortably to Rabbit Tail's philosophy." "It was to make that philosophy workable that started me inventing. That is, to give every man food and shelter with a minimum of work."