is the thing. In two years everybody would have forgotten all about everything; except possibly a few of the closest friends of this obstructive old fool. And to the new population, the dwellers on the prosperous, smiling irrigated farms; the thousands who must flock to this garden spot of the world, Patrick Boyd would be what he was—leading citizen, public benefactor, bringer of prosperity, the man with vision who had seen and brought in a new era. Outside the bank building he paused to light a cigar. He was well satisfied.
"I'm sorry; you don't know how sorry I am," Oliver Mills was saying to his confrères, who were too dejected to disperse. "But it has been a long time coming. I don't see how it could be helped."
"There isn't one thing anybody can do, as I can see," agreed someone.
"It's happened to about all the big Spanish grants," said another, "but, gosh! I do wish it hadn't happened to this one."
"Well, there's nothing to be done about it," repeated the first speaker.
III
The Chinese factotum of the bank, who had all this time been deliberately washing the tall windows at the end of the room, now folded up his step ladder, picked up his pail and mop, and padded out on his felt-soled shoes. His name was Sing Gee, and he was very high among the Sings. In business hours he washed floors and windows and cuspidors and ink wells and things for the bank. Out of business hours he occupied an airless back room behind a store that sold highly varnished ducks. Where repaired to him many oriental magnificos and bravos who from him took orders. He was in addition a graduate of Harvard and spoke English almost without an accent; an accomplishment that, for some mysterious reason of his own, he hid under an inscrutable demeanour and almost inunderstandable "pidgin."
Depositing the utensils of his bondage in a closet he approached the cashier.
"I go now," he stated.
