“Orde,” replied Bob.

The gray man seemed for an almost imperceptible instant to stiffen in his seat.  The gray eyes glazed over; the gray lined face froze.

“Orde,” he repeated harshly; “where from?”

“Michigan,” Bob replied.

The gray man rose stiffly.  “Well, Selwyn,” said he, “this is Mr. Orde—­of Michigan—­and I want you to show him around.”

He moved down the aisle to take a seat, distant, but facing the two young men.  Bob felt himself the object of a furtive but minute scrutiny which lasted until the train slowed down at the outskirts of Lucky.

Selwyn proved to be an agreeable young man, keen-faced, clean-cut, full of energy and enthusiasm.  He soon discovered that Bob did not contemplate going into ranching, and at once admitted that young man to his confidence.

“You just nail a seat in that surrey over there, while I chase out my two ‘prospects.’  We sell on commission and I’ve got to rustle.”

They drove out of the sleepy little village on which had been grafted showy samples of the Company’s progress.  The day was beautiful with sunshine, with the mellow calls of meadow larks, with warmth and sweet odours.  As the surrey took its zigzag way through the brush, as the quail paced away to right and left, as the delicate aroma of the sage rose to his nostrils, Bob began to be very glad he had come.  Here and there the brush had been cleared, small shacks built, fences of wire strung, and the land ploughed over.  At such places the surrey paused while Selwyn held forth to his two stolid “prospects” on how long these newcomers had been there and how well they were getting on.  The country rose in a gradual slope to the slate-blue mountains.  Ditches ran here and there.  Everywhere were small square stakes painted white, indicating the boundaries of tracts yet unsold.

They visited the reservoir, which looked to Bob uncommonly like a muddy duck pond, but whose value Selwyn soon made very clear.  They wandered through the Chiquito ranch, whence came the exhibition fruit and other products, and which formed the basis of most Lucky arguments.  The owner had taken many medals for his fruit, and had spent twenty-five years in making the Chiquito a model.

“Any man can do likewise in this land of promise,” said Selwyn.

They ended finally in a beautiful little canon among the foothills.  It was grown thick with twisted, mottled sycamores just budding into leaf, with vines and greenery of the luxurious California varieties.  Birds sang everywhere and a brook babbled and bubbled down a stony bed.

Under the largest of the sycamores a tent had been pitched and a table spread.  Affairs seemed to be in charge of a very competent countrywoman whose fuzzy horse and ramshackle buggy stood securely tethered below.  The surries drove up and deposited their burdens.  Bob took his place at table to be served with an abundant, hot and well-cooked meal.