vanza, a progressive man for his day and country. The wagon that came behind him was a Yankee wagon, brought from a New England factory by one of these hide-droghers such as lifted to yonder swell; the harness on the eight mules which drew the great wagon was Yankee-made, strong and reliable, even though from such tricky hands. Even the man who drove the eight mules, the confusing lines of leather familiar to him as the strings of a harp to a musician's hands, had learned the art from a Yankee freighter, across the mountains and desert in distant Santa Fe.
More: the capacity of that one wagon, grinding over the sandy road on its broad tires, was that of twenty ox-drawn carts such as Don Abrahan's conservative, tradition-serving neighbors employed. There was a tale of hides piled under that trifling Simon—good for nothing in the world but driving eight mules—to make a man's heart stretch with pride, even a Yankee captain's eyes open in sluggish surprise. To a man who could command such things, a man who graced a station of eminence, to whom men removed their hats, to be cheated of forty-three hides was a humiliation and affront. It was from that reason, all his might and consequence considered, that Don Abrahan gathered his brows as he rode, with a thought of adjustment in his hour.
A boat was putting off from the distant ship, so laden with boxes, bales and barrels of goods that the next sea must overwhelm it, so it seemed to
