“George, how I ever drifted down here I don’t know.  I didn’t exactly quarrel with the governor.  But—­damn it, Dad hurt me—­shamed me, and I dug out for the West.  It was this way.  After leaving college I tried to please him by tackling one thing after another that he set me to do.  On the square, I had no head for business.  I made a mess of everything.  The governor got sore.  He kept ramming the harpoon into me till I just couldn’t stand it.  What little ability I possessed deserted me when I got my back up, and there you are.  Dad and I had a rather uncomfortable half hour.  When I quit—­when I told him straight out that I was going West to fare for myself, why, it wouldn’t have been so tough if he hadn’t laughed at me.  He called me a rich man’s son—­an idle, easy-going spineless swell.  He said I didn’t even have character enough to be out and out bad.  He said I didn’t have sense enough to marry one of the nice girls in my sister’s crowd.  He said I couldn’t get back home unless I sent to him for money.  He said he didn’t believe I could fight—­could really make a fight for anything under the sun.  Oh—­he—­he shot it into me, all right.”

Dick dropped his head upon his hands, somewhat ashamed of the smarting dimness in his eyes.  He had not meant to say so much.  Yet what a relief to let out that long-congested burden!

“Fight!” cried Thorne, hotly.  “What’s ailing him?  Didn’t they call you Biff Gale in college?  Dick, you were one of the best men Stagg ever developed.  I heard him say so—­that you were the fastest, one-hundred-and-seventy-five-pound man he’d ever trained, the hardest to stop.”

“The governor didn’t count football,” said Dick.  “He didn’t mean that kind of fight.  When I left home I don’t think I had an idea what was wrong with me.  But, George, I think I know now.  I was a rich man’s son—­spoiled, dependent, absolutely ignorant of the value of money.  I haven’t yet discovered any earning capacity in me.  I seem to be unable to do anything with my hands.  That’s the trouble.  But I’m at the end of my tether now.  And I’m going to punch cattle or be a miner, or do some real stunt—­like joining the rebels.”

“Aha!  I thought you’d spring that last one on me,” declared Thorne, wagging his head.  “Well, you just forget it.  Say, old boy, there’s something doing in Mexico.  The United States in general doesn’t realize it.  But across that line there are crazy revolutionists, ill-paid soldiers, guerrilla leaders, raiders, robbers, outlaws, bandits galore, starving peons by the thousand, girls and women in terror.  Mexico is like some of her volcanoes—­ready to erupt fire and hell!  Don’t make the awful mistake of joining rebel forces.  Americans are hated by Mexicans of the lower class—­ the fighting class, both rebel and federal.  Half the time these crazy Greasers are on one side, then on the other.  If you didn’t starve or get shot in ambush, or