Mr. Ellsworth turned on him suddenly.  “Where’s your titles?” he asked.

“We haven’t needed any, so far.  Now that you’ve come, with talk of a railroad and all that—­”

“Oh, well, you know, that’s just talk.  I’m not responsible for that.”

“I hope you like canned tomatoes,” said Dan Anderson, “or, if you don’t, that you’re very fond of beefsteak.  There won’t be much else till Tom Osby gets back from Las Vegas with a load of freight.  Tom Osby’s our common carrier.  I hope the new railroad will do as well.”

Mr. Ellsworth was a gentleman, and a very hungry one, so there was no quarrel over the tomatoes, which were Special XXX, nor over the beefsteak, which might have been worse.  An hour later he went out on the street with his host, whose conduct thus far, he was forced to admit, had been irreproachable.  They strolled up the rambling street, past many straggling buildings, and at length paused before the little building, made of sun-dried brick, and plastered with mud, where Dan Anderson had his residence and his law office.

“You’ll excuse me, Mr. Ellsworth,” said that young gentleman, “for bringing you here, but the truth is I thought you might be thirsty and might get poisoned.  You have to do these things gradually, till you get immune.  Now, under my bed, I’ve got a bottle which never has been opened and which ought to be safe.  I don’t bother corks a great deal, only when we are welcoming distinguished guests.”

“It’s just a little soon after dinner,” demurred Ellsworth, “but, ahem!  That dust—­yes, I believe I will.”

There was a dignity about Dan Anderson now which left Ellsworth distinctly uncomfortable.  The latter felt himself in some fashion at a disadvantage before this penniless adventurer, this young man whom once he had not cared to have as a regular visitor at his own home back in the far-off East.

“You don’t mean to tell me, young man,” he spoke after a long period of silence, “that this is the way you live?”

“Certainly,” said Dan Anderson.  “I know I’m extravagant.  I don’t need a place as good as this, but I always was sort of sensuous, you know.”  Ellsworth looked at him without any comprehension, from him to the bed with blankets, and the bare table.  “Come in,” said Dan Anderson, “and sit down.  Better sit on the chair, I reckon.  One leg of the bed is sort of dicky.”

“So this is the way you live?” repeated Ellsworth to Dan Anderson, who was now on his hands and knees and searching under the bed.  “Now, about my daughter—­is there any hotel—­are there any women?”

“Three, from Kansas,” said Dan Anderson.  “That is, three real ones.  All the female earth, Mr. Ellsworth, comes from Kansas, same as all the baled hay.  Oh, yes, here she is!”

He had been speaking with his voice somewhat muffled under the bed, but now emerged, bearing a dusty bottle in his hand.