tured Indians and Mexicans in unloading the freight wagon was a thing that overturned the traditions of their lives.
Man was born but to traverse his way to the tomb. The dullest of them understood that fact as well as the most learned philosopher or theologian that ever wrote a book. Why should he hasten on his way, bringing the end quicker in the bitterness of unnecessary toil? Dark were the glances that followed the American in his bounding haste; deep the scowls that fixed upon their brows. If Don Abrahan should come, and see that foolish, hastening man, what exactions might he lay upon their shoulders in this revelation of the human capacity for work? Terrible thought! sorrowful, miserable thought!
Don Abrahan came. He stood under the eaves of the thatch smoking his cigar, watching this monkey of a Yankee, whose employment in the past had been clambering up high masts under the lash of the brutal task-master whose tyranny he had fled. Don Abrahan was seen to smile.
They remembered that day on Don Abrahan's ranch long after the American sailor had remedied his fortunes and mounted to his place; they judged him in the light of subsequent events by the bitterness he planted in them those first fevered hours of his service there. Not alone that day, but many days that came after, when the sailor was the quickening force of their sluggish endeavors.
When they worked at piling hides in the store-
