“I don’t lend no good dollars on squatters’ claims,” said Pap.  “Let’s git to business.”

We explained what we wanted.  Upon the top of Pap’s head the sparse grey hairs bristled ominously.  His teeth clicked; his eyes snapped.  He was furiously angry—­as I had expected him to be.

“You’ve a nerve,” he jerked out.  “You boys come up here askin’ me fer a thousand dollars.  What air you goin’ to do?”

“We’ve no money,” said Ajax, “but we’ve leisure.  I dare say we may dig graves.”

“You’re two crazy fools.”

“We know that, Mr. Spooner.”

“I’m a-goin’ to tell ye something.  Diptheery in this yere country is worse’n small-pox—­and I’ve seen both.”  The look of horror came again into his face.  “My wife an’ my child died o’ diptheery nearly thirty-five year ago.”  He shuddered.  Then he pointed a trembling finger at one of the daguerreotypes.  “There she is—­a beauty!  And before she died—­oh, Heaven!” I thought I saw something in his eyes, something human.  Ajax burst out——­

“Mr. Spooner, because of that, won’t you help these poor people?”

“No!  When she died, when the child died, something died in me.  D’ye think I don’t know what ye all think?  Don’t I know that I’m the ornariest, meanest old skinflint atween Point Sal and San Diego?  That’s me, and I’m proud of it.  I aim to let the hull world stew in its own juice.  The folks in these yere foothills need thinnin’ anyway.  Halloa!  What in thunder’s this?” Through the door, which we had left ajar, very timidly, all blushes and dimples, and sucking one small thumb, came Sissy Leadham.  She stood staring at us, standing on one leg and scratching herself nervously with the other.

“Why, Sissy?” said Ajax.

She removed her thumb, reluctantly.

“Yas—­it’s me,” she confessed.  “Popsy don’t know as I’ve comed up here.”  Then, suddenly remembering the conventions, she said, politely, “Good-evening, Mr. Spooner.”

“Good-evening,” said the astonished Pap.

“You wasn’t expectin’ me?”

“I didn’t think it was very likely as you’d call in,” said Pap, “seein’, Missy, as you’d never called in afore.”

“My name’s Sissy, not Missy.  Well, I’ll call again, Mr. Spooner, when you’ve no comp’ny.”

“Jee-roosalem!  Call again—­will ye?  An’ s’pose I ain’t to home—­hey?  No, Missy—­wal, Sissy, then—­no, Sissy, you speak out an’ tell me what brought you a-visitin’—­me?”

She shuffled very uneasily.

“I felt so awful sorry for you, Mr. Spooner.  I jest hed to come, but I’ll call again, early to-morrer.”

“No, ye won’t.  Because I aim ter leave this yere ranch afore sun-up.  Jest you speak up an’ out.  If yer folks has sent you here”—­his eyes hardened and flashed—­“to borrer money, why, you kin tell ’em I ain’t got none to loan.”

Sissy laughed gaily.

“Why, I know that, Mr. Spooner.  It’s jest because, be-cause yer so pore—­so very, very pore, that I comed up.”