DeGolyer threw down his pen.  “No, I would have him live forever in his thoughtless and beautiful paradise; I would not pull him down to the thoughtful man’s hell of self-communion.”

“Look here, young man, you must have a history.”

“No, simply an ill-written essay.”

“Who was your father?”

“A fool.”

“Ah, I grant you.  And who was your mother?”

“An angel.”

“No, sir, she—­I beg your pardon,” the old man quickly added.  “You are sensitive, sir.”

DeGolyer, sadly smiling, replied:  “He who suffered in childhood, and who in after life has walked hand in hand with disappointment, and is then not sensitive, is a brute.”

“How well do I know the truth of that!  DeGolyer, I have been acquainted with you but a short time, but you appeal to me strongly, sir.  And I could almost tell you something, but it is something that I ought to keep to myself.  I could make you despise me and then offer me your regard as a compromise.  Oh, that American republic of ours, fought for by men who scorned the romance of kingly courts, is not so commonplace a country after all.  Many strange things happen there, and some of them are desperately foul.  Is that Henry coming?  Hush.”

The young man bounded into the room.  “Say,” he cried, “I’ve bargained for six of the biggest monkeys you ever saw.  That old fellow “—­

“Henry,” the uncle interrupted, taking up a hat and fanning his purplish face, “you are getting too old for that sort of foolishness.  You are a man, you must remember, and it may not be long until you’ll be called upon to exercise the judgment of a man.”

“Oh, I was going to buy the monkeys and sell them again for three times as much as I gave for them, but you bet that when I’m called on to exercise the judgment, of a man I’ll be there.  And do you think that I’d fool with mines or anything else in this country?  I wouldn’t.  I’d go to some American city and make money.  Say, DeGolyer, when are you going to start off on that jaunt?”

“What jaunt?” the old man asked.

“I am going to make a tour of the country,” DeGolyer answered.  “I’m going to visit nearly every community of interest and gather material for my letters, and shall be gone a month or so, I should think.”

“And I’m going with him,” said Henry.

“No,” the old man replied, “you are not going to leave me here all that time alone.  I’m old, and I want you near me.”

“All right, uncle; whatever you say goes.”

When DeGolyer mounted a mule and set out on his journey, young Sawyer, as if clinging to his friendship, walked beside him for some distance into the country.

“Well, I’d better turn back here,” said the young man, halting.  “Say, Hank, don’t stay away any longer than you can help.  It’s devilish lonesome here, you know.”

“I won’t, my boy.”

“All right.  And say, if you can’t do the thing up as well as you want to, throw up the job and come back here, for I’ll turn loose, the first thing you know, and make enough money for both of us.”