Baker Cole chuckled somewhere down in his chest and laid an impressive forefinger on Bill's arm. "You come on and play with _me_, in my game," he invited. "I can't promise you won't make money at it--but you'll have fun." "I bet I would, at that," said Bill. "But my wife doesn't want me to get into business. She wants me to run along and play." It was the nearest that Bill had ever come to uttering a complaint. He did not realize that it was even distantly related to a protest against the future which Doris had mapped out for them. But as he spoke, he saw a swift, mental panorama of cities and shops and long, pillared, hotel corridors and suites furnished in velvet upholstery. He felt his feet sinking into the sickish softness of deep-piled carpets, and boys with bright buttons and little caps and silver trays dogging him with the prematurely calculating smirk. He saw long, shaded avenues down which he was carried swiftly on cushions,--always cushions and carpets and a smothery, scented atmosphere that sometimes nauseated him with its cloying sweetness. He shut his eyes, pressing his lips together in silent revolt against the picture. And there, sharply outlined before him, were the stark, barren hills of the desert. Volcanic rubble in the foreground, and stunted sage, and a lizard ducking its head with a queer, ticking motion while it watched him from a rock; soft shadows lying at the foot of great boulders, and all the magic tints of distance; the two burros shuffling before him, picking their way daintily, setting tiny feet between the rocks; Sister Mitchell, horny and gray and solemn, clinging to the canvas with claws thrust out from her shell the size of a dinner plate; and Luella, a vivid bit of green in the gray monotone, riding gallantly the pack of Wise One and talking gravely of things a parrot shouldn't know; and Hez, solemnly herding the little company and believing himself indispensable,--Bill's teeth came down hard on his under lip. "You're homesick," Baker Cole's voice shattered the vision for the moment. Bill swallowed and could not meet his eyes. He threw away his cigarette, gone cold between his lips--bitten, too, in the sharp pain of remembrance--and reached for his sack of tobacco. "I want the crunch of gravel under my feet," he admitted, smiling a twisted smile. "The ocean kind of filled the hankering for distance--but I want to get out and walk and walk---- Aw, hell! A man can't have everything at once. I had the desert, and all the while I dreamed of being rich and not having to eat beans and bacon. I was almost as sick of that country as Mrs. Dale was. But somehow--she takes to this life better than I do. She hates to be reminded of Nevada, and has been trying to coax her folks to sell out and come to the Coast. I don't blame her--not for one minute. It's no place for a woman, back there." Baker Cole rose and flicked cigar ashes off his vest.