An up-darting gleam of suddenly aroused interest and curiosity flashed for a moment in Bob Flick’s eyes.  Was it possible that at the mention of that name Hanson had started and that something which might have been taken for the shadow of dismay had overfallen his face?

“Fine mining camp,” Flick commented.  “You know it at all, Mr. Hanson?”

Hanson had scratched a match to light his cigarette, but now he lifted his eyes and looked across its tiny flare straight at Flick.  “No,” he said indifferently, “never was in it in my life.”

His tone and manner were both open and convincing, and yet the ruddy color, as Flick noticed with merciless satisfaction, had not returned to his face.

“He’s an awful queer man,” confided Mrs. Gallito in a low voice to Hanson.  “I suppose,” with a sigh, “it’s the Spanish of him.  Just think,” she spoke as one who has never overcome an unmitigated wonder, “born in the sawdust same as me; his folks from way back all in the business, and him with no use for it.  Never rested till he got away from it.  Why, he didn’t even want me to train Pearl, but,” and here triumph rang in her tones, “he couldn’t help that.  She took to it like a duck takes to water.  Always ready for it, never cried or complained at the long hours.”

“She’s sure got cause to be grateful to you.”  Hanson spoke sincerely.

“I wouldn’t have known what else to do with a child,” said Mrs. Gallito simply.  “I always saw them trained that way.  But her Pop didn’t stand for it.”

During this conversation Pearl and Flick had risen and, with Lolita still on Flick’s shoulder, had sauntered down through the garden.

Seeing this, Rudolf, with his customary philosophy, made the best of the situation.  “Well,” with rather vague gallantry, “I don’t see how he can stay away from a home like this.”

“It’s the Spanish of him.”  This was Mrs. Gallito’s explanation of all the eccentricities in which her husband might indulge.  “And,” with unwonted optimism, “maybe it’s a blessing, too, ’cause he’s awful queer.  And, anyway, he’s what they call a man’s man.  Why, you might think he lived all by himself up there in Colina; but he don’t.  He’s got more old Spaniards around”—­she raised her eyes—­“and they’re the awfullest!  Cut-throats and pirates, I call ’em.  They come up from the coast.  And it’s funny, too,” she exclaimed in a sort of querulous wonder, “because Gallito’s awful respectable himself.”

“That is queer, isn’t it?” His tone was politely interested, but his errant glance strayed to where Pearl and Flick stood gazing over the vast spaces of the desert, flooded with illimitable sunshine.

But Mrs. Gallito needed only a modicum of interest upon which to launch her confidences.  “Yes, he certainly is queer, and Pearl’s like him in lots of ways.  Neither of them can stand anything holding them.  They’re always wanting to be free, and they both got the strongest wills.”