“He was foaled right here on this ranch,” Grayson corrected him, “and he ain't never been more'n a hundred mile from it. If he ain't dead or stolen he'd a-ben back afore the bookkeeper was. It's almighty queer.” “What sort of bookkeeper is Mr. Bridge?” asked the girl. “Oh, he's all right I guess,” replied Grayson grudgingly. “A feller's got to be some good at something. He's probably one of these here paper-collar, cracker-fed college dudes thet don't know nothin' else 'cept writin' in books.” The girl rose, smiled, and moved away. “I like Mr. Bridge, anyhow,” she called back over her shoulder, “for whatever he may not be he is certainly a well-bred gentleman,” which speech did not tend to raise Mr. Bridge in the estimation of the hard-fisted ranch foreman. “Funny them greasers don't come in from the north range with thet bunch o' steers. They ben gone all day now,” he said to the boss, ignoring the girl's parting sally. Bridge sat tip-tilted against the front of the office building reading an ancient magazine which he had found within. His day's work was done and he was but waiting for the gong that would call him to the evening meal with the other employees of the ranch. The magazine failed to rouse his interest. He let it drop idly to his knees and with eyes closed reverted to his never-failing source of entertainment. And then that slim, poetic guy he turned and looked me in the eye, “....It's overland and overland and overseas to--where?” “Most anywhere that isn't here,” I says. His face went kind of queer. “The place we're in is always here. The other place is there.” Bridge stretched luxuriously. “'There,'” he repeated. “I've been searching for THERE for many years; but for some reason I can never get away from HERE. About two weeks of any place on earth and that place is just plain HERE to me, and I'm longing once again for THERE.” His musings were interrupted by a sweet feminine voice close by. Bridge did not open his eyes at once--he just sat there, listening. As I was hiking past the woods, the cool and sleepy summer woods, I saw a guy a-talking to the sunshine in the air, Thinks I, “He's going to have a fit--I'll stick around and watch a bit,” But he paid no attention, hardly knowing I was there. Then the girl broke into a merry laugh and Bridge opened his eyes and came to his feet. “I didn't know you cared for that sort of stuff,” he said. “Knibbs writes man-verse. I shouldn't have imagined that it would appeal to a young lady.” “But it does, though,” she replied; “at least to me. There's a swing to it and a freedom that 'gets me in the eye.'” Again she laughed, and when this girl laughed, harder-headed and much older men than Mr. L. Bridge felt strange emotions move within their breasts.