“This is a very queer desert,” gasped Io.  “It’s bewitched.  Or am I?  Now, I’m going to walk once more around you, little owl, or mighty magician, whichever you are.  And after I’ve completely turned your head, you’ll fall at my feet.  Or else...”

Again she walked around the feathered center of the circle.  The head followed her, turning with a steady and uninterrupted motion, on its pivot.  Io took a silver dime from her purse.

“Heaven save us from the powers of evil!” she said appreciatively.  “Aroint thee, witch!”

She threw the coin at the cactus.

“Chrr-rr-rrum!” burbled the owl, and flew away.

“I’m dizzy,” said Io.  “I wonder if the owl is an omen and whether the other inhabitants of this desert are like him; however much you turn their heads, they won’t fall for you.  Charms and counter-charms!...  Be a good child, Io,” she admonished herself.  “Haven’t you got yourself into enough trouble with your deviltries?  I can’t help it,” she defended herself.  “When I see a new and interesting specimen, I’ve just got to investigate its nature and habits.  It’s an inherited scientific spirit, I suppose.  And he is new, and awfully interesting—­even if he is only a station-agent.”  Wherefrom it will be perceived that her thoughts had veered from the cactus owl, to another perplexing local phenomenon.

The glaring line of the railroad right-of-way rose before her feet, a discordant note of rigidity and order in the confused prodigality of desert growth.  Io turned away from it, but followed its line until she reached the station.  No sign of life greeted her.  The door was locked, and the portable house unresponsive to her knocking.  Presently, however, she heard the steady click of the telegraph instrument and, looking through the half-open office window, saw Banneker absorbed in his work.

“Good-morning,” she called.

Without looking up he gave back her greeting in an absent echo.

“As you didn’t come to see me, I’ve come to see you,” was her next attempt.

Did he nod?  Or had he made no motion at all?

“I’ve come to ask important questions about trains,” she pursued, a little aggrieved by his indifference to her presence.

No reply from the intent worker.

“And ‘tell sad stories of the death of kings,’” she quoted with a fairy chuckle.  She thought that she saw a small contortion pass over his features, only to be banished at once.  He had retired within the walls of that impassive and inscrutable reserve which minor railroad officials can at will erect between themselves and the lay public.  Only the broken rhythms of the telegraph ticker relieved the silence and furnished the justification.

A little piqued but more amused, for she was far too confident of herself to feel snubbed, the girl waited smilingly.  Presently she said in silken tones: 

“When you’re quite through and can devote a little attention to insignificant me, I shall perhaps be sitting on the sunny corner of the platform, or perhaps I shall be gone forever.”