"_But Smith Is Not His Real Name_" Owen Beasely. That was his name, and Sidney met him while waiting for a subscriber, who failed to show up. He was a relative of Smith's, whom he had met the day before. It was two P.M., the fourth day of July, and the colored people, as well as the white, had retired to a day of delight. It was hot, and clouds rolled up, white-capped from the west. "It would rain before night," the weather man said, and it did. "And so you came from the west," said Beasely, who had been reading _The Tempest_. Wyeth had seen him working behind the counter, and they put aside all formality of introduction. Wyeth was glad to meet someone to talk to that day. He had come out to this suburb, under promise of subscribers to take the book. And, since every one of them had retracted, he was discouraged, which is a disagreeable feeling. "Yes," he replied gloomily, "and the day I return will be one of great happiness. I am not particularly in love with being down here anyhow; and the sooner I see the plains again, that much sooner will I be happy and contented." "Well," drawled the other lazily, "having been born down here, and never having seen the rest of this great domain, I do not, of course, know the difference; still, I have always cherished a longing to go west. I intended going to Oklahoma years ago, and getting in on some of that government land they were giving away, but I put it off until it was too late, and then too, I had trouble in my family. My oldest daughter married a worthless rascal who burdened her with those children you see playing about the store, and I had to take care of them and her too, since her marriage left her in bad health." The other listened without comment. Beasely, however, went on, apparently in a mood to relate the past. "Smith has been telling me about you, and I have been anxious to have a talk with you. Smith is my brother-in-law, and he too, has had his share of trials." By this time, they had settled themselves on the porch of an empty quarter house. Wyeth chanced to look around, and, seeing so many empty ones, said: "How does this come to be? So many empty houses?" "Bulgarians lived in this row," he said, pointing to them. "Hundreds of them, and when the war broke out in the Balkan states, every last one of them left here and went back to fight, and have not returned." "Some patriotism, eh!" Wyeth commented. "It is singular about these foreigners," he said thoughtfully. "Have you ever observed them?" The other nodded. Beasely went on.