When he rose from his knees he had a feeling that God had not lost track of him and that, despite a long list of debit entries, a celestial accountant had, at some period in Don Mike’s life, posted a considerable sum to his credit in the Book of Things.  “That credit may just balance the account,” he reflected, “although it is quite probable I am still working in the red ink.  Well—­I’ve asked Him for the privilege of overdrawing my account . . . we shall see what we shall see.”

At daylight he awakened suddenly and found himself quite mysteriously the possessor of a trend of reasoning that automatically forced him to sit up in bed.

Fifteen minutes later, mounted on Panchito, he was cantering up the San Gregorio, and just as the cook at Bill Conway’s camp at Agua Caliente Basin came to the door of the mess hall and yelled:  “Come an’ git it or I’ll throw it out,” Panchito slid down the gravel cut-bank into camp.

“Where is Mr. Conway?” he demanded of the cook,

The latter jerked a greasy thumb toward the interior of the mess hall, so, leaving Panchito “tied to the breeze,” Don Mike dismounted and entered.

“Hello there, young feller,” Bill Conway roared at him.

“Top o’ the morning to you, old dirt-digger,” Farrel replied.  “Please deal me a hand of your ham and eggs, sunny side up.  How be ye, Willum?”

“R’arin’ to go,” Conway assured him.

“All right.  Pack up and go to-day.  You’re through on this job.”

“Why?”

“I’ve changed my mind about fighting Parker on this dam deal—­and no profanity intended.”

“But—­but—­”

“But me no buts, even if you are the goat.  You’re through.  I forbid the bans.  The eggs, man!  I’m famished.  The midnight ride of Paul Revere was a mere exercise gallop, because he started shortly after supper, but the morning ride of Mike Farrel has been done on fresh air.”

“You’re a lunatic.  If you knew what I know, Miguel—­”

“Hush!  I want to ascertain what you know.  Bet you a dollar!” He slammed a dollar down on the table and held his palm over it.

Bill Conway produced a dollar and likewise covered it.  “Very well, son,” he replied.  “I’ll see your dollar.  What’s the nature of the bet?”

“I’m betting a dollar you didn’t draw the plans for this dam.”

Bill Conway flipped his dollar over to his guest.

“I’m betting two dollars!”

Conway took two silver dollars from his vest pocket and laid them on the table.  “And the bet?” he queried.

“I’m betting two dollars the plans were drawn by an engineer in Los Angeles.”

“Some days I can’t lay up a cent,” the old contractor complained, and parted with his two dollars.

“I’m betting four dollars!” Farrel challenged.

“See your four dollars,” Conway retorted and covered the bet.

“I’m betting that those plans were drawn by the engineer of the South Coast Power Corporation.”