He came to a big farm.  He knew it must be big, because of the bigness of the house and the size and number of the barns and outbuildings.  On the porch, in shirt sleeves, smoking a cigar, keen-eyed and middle-aged, was the farmer.

“What’s the chance for a job?” Ross Shanklin asked.

The keen eyes scarcely glanced at him.

“A dollar a day and grub,” was the answer.

Ross Shanklin swallowed and braced himself.

“I’ll pick grapes all right, or anything.  But what’s the chance for a steady job?  You’ve got a big ranch here.  I know hosses.  I was born on one.  I can drive team, ride, plough, break, do anything that anybody ever done with hosses.”

The other looked him over with an appraising, incredulous eye.

“You don’t look it,” was the judgment.

“I know I don’t.  Give me a chance.  That’s all.  I’ll prove it.”

The farmer considered, casting an anxious glance at the cloud bank into which the sun had sunk.

“I’m short a teamster, and I’ll give you the chance to make good.  Go and get supper with the hands.”

Ross Shanklin’s voice was very husky, and be spoke with an effort.

“All right.  I’ll make good.  Where can I get a drink of water and wash up?”

THE PRODIGAL FATHER

I

Josiah Childs was ordinarily an ordinary-appearing, prosperous business man.  He wore a sixty-dollar, business-man’s suit, his shoes were comfortable and seemly and made from the current last, his tie, collars and cuffs were just what all prosperous business men wore, and an up-to-date, business-man’s derby was his wildest adventure in head-gear.  Oakland, California, is no sleepy country town, and Josiah Childs, as the leading grocer of a rushing Western metropolis of three hundred thousand, appropriately lived, acted, and dressed the part.

But on this morning, before the rush of custom began, his appearance at the store, while it did not cause a riot, was sufficiently startling to impair for half an hour the staff’s working efficiency.  He nodded pleasantly to the two delivery drivers loading their wagons for the first trip of the morning, and cast upward the inevitable, complacent glance at the sign that ran across the front of the building—­CHILDS’ CASH STORE.  The lettering, not too large, was of dignified black and gold, suggestive of noble spices, aristocratic condiments, and everything of the best (which was no more than to be expected of a scale of prices ten per cent. higher than any other grocery in town).  But what Josiah Childs did not see as he turned his back on the drivers and entered, was the helpless and mutual fall of surprise those two worthies perpetrated on each other’s necks.  They clung together for support.

“Did you catch the kicks, Bill?” one moaned.

“Did you pipe the head-piece?” Bill moaned back.