other things to him which were not pleasant.  Most of these pranks seemed to have been instigated by a laughing, curly-haired young man named Fay.  Fay had clear blue eyes, which seemed always to mock you.  He could think up more diabolical schemes in ten minutes than the rest of the men in as many hours.  Bennington came shortly to hate this man Fay.  His attentions had so much of the gratuitous!  For a number of days, even after the enjoyment of novelty had worn off, the Easterner returned bravely to Spanish Gulch every afternoon for the mail.  It was a matter of pride with him.  He did not like to be bluffed out.  But Fay was always there.

“Tender foot!” the latter would shriek joyously, and bear down on the shrinking de Laney.

That would bring out the loafers.  It all had to happen over again.

Bennington hoped that this performance would cease in time.  It never did.

By a mental process, unnecessary to trace here, he modified his first views, and permitted Old Mizzou to get the mail.  Spanish Gulch saw him no more.

After all, it was quite as good Western experience to wander in the hills.  He did not regret the other.  In fact, as he cast in review his research in Wild West literature, he perceived that the incidents of his town visits were the proper thing.  He would not have had them different—­to look back on.  They were inspiring—­to write home about.  He recognised all the types—­the miner, the gambler, the saloon-keeper, the bad man, the cowboy, the prospector—­just as though they had stepped living from the pages of his classics.  They had the true slouch; they used the picturesque language.  The log cabins squared with his ideas.  The broncos even exceeded them.

But now he had seen it all.  There is no sense in draining an agreeable cup to satiety.  He was quite content to enjoy his rambles in the hills, like the healthy youngster he was.  But had he seen it all?  On reflection, he acknowledged he could not make this statement to himself with a full consciousness of sincerity.  One thing was lacking from the preconceived picture his imagination had drawn.  There had been no Mountain Flowers.  By that he meant girls.

Every one knows what a Western girl is.  She is a beautiful creature, always, with clear, tanned skin, bright eyes, and curly hair.  She wears a Tam o’ Shanter.  She rides a horse.  Also, she talks deliciously, in a silver voice, about “old pards.”  Altogether a charming vision—­in books.

This vision Bennington had not yet realized.  The rest of the West came up to specifications, but this one essential failed.  In Spanish Gulch he had, to be sure, encountered a number of girls.  But they were red-handed, big-boned, freckled-faced, rough-skinned, and there wasn’t a Tam o’ Shanter in the lot.  Plainly servants, Bennington thought.  The Mountain Flower must have gone on a visit.  Come to think of it, there never was more than one Mountain Flower to a town.