“I’m as much surprised as you are, boys,” said Elliott, showing the palms of his hands, on which were two blisters.

“The little cuss is game, anyhow,” muttered California John to Thorne.

“It was an awful job,” confided the other; “but I marked him something on it because he stayed with it so well.”

Toward sunset Bob said farewell, expressing many regrets that he could not return on the morrow to see the rest of the examinations.  He rode back through the forest, thoughtfully inclined.  The first taste of the Western joy of mere existence was passing with him.  He was beginning to look upon his life, and ask of it the why.  To be sure, he could tell himself that his day’s work was well done, and that this should suffice any man; that he was an integral part of the economic machine; that in comparison with the average young man of his age he had made his way with extraordinary success; that his responsibilities were sufficient to keep him busy and happy; that men depended on him—­all the reasons that philosophy or acquiescence in the plan of life ultimately bring to a man.  But these did not satisfy the uneasiness of his spirit.  He was too young to settle down to a routine; he was too intellectually restless to be contented with reiterations, however varied, of that which he had seen through and around.  It was the old defect—­or glory—­of his character; the quality that had caused him more anxiety, more self-reproach, more bitterness of soul than any other, the Rolling Stone spirit that—­though now he could not see it—­even if it gathered no moss of respectable achievement, might carry him far.

So as he rode he peered into the scheme of things for the final satisfaction.  In what did it lie?  Not for him in mere activity, nor in the accomplishment of the world’s work, no matter how variedly picturesque his particular share of it might be.  He felt his interest ebbing, his spirit restless at its moorings.  The days passed.  He arose in the morning:  and it was night!  Four years ago he had come to California.  It seemed but yesterday.  The days were past, gone, used.  Of it all what had he retained?  The years had run like sea sands between his fingers, and not a grain of them remained in his grasp.  A little money was there, a little knowledge, a little experience—­but what toward the final satisfaction, the justification of a man’s life?  Bob was still too young, too individualistic to consider the doctrine of the day’s work well done as the explanation and justification of all.  The coming years would pass as quickly, leaving as little behind.  Never so poignantly had he felt the insistence of the carpe diem.  It was necessary that he find a reality, something he could winnow from the years as fine gold from sand, so that he could lay his hand on the treasure and say to his soul:  “This much have I accomplished.”  Bob had learned well the American lesson:  that the idler is to be scorned; that a true man must use his powers, must work; that he must succeed.  Now he was taking the next step spiritually.  How does a man really use his powers?  What is success?