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Out there somewhere!" says I to me. "By Gosh, I guess, thats poetry!" "Out

there somewhere--Penelope--with kisses on her mouth!" And then, thinks I, "O

college guy! your talk it gets me in the eye, The north is creeping in the air, the

birds are flying south."

Barbara swung around to view the poet. She saw a slender man astride a fagged

Mexican pony. A ragged coat and ragged trousers covered the man's nakedness.

Indian moccasins protected his feet, while a torn and shapeless felt hat sat upon

his well-shaped head. AMERICAN was written all over him. No one could have

imagined him anything else. Apparently he was a tramp as well--his apparel

proclaimed him that; but there were two discordant notes in the otherwise

harmonious ensemble of your typical bo. He was clean shaven and he rode a

pony. He rode erect, too, with the easy seat of an army officer.

At sight of the girl he raised his battered hat and swept it low to his pony's

shoulder as he bent in a profound bow.

I seek the majordomo, senorita," he said.

Mr. Grayson is up at the office, that little building to the left of the ranchhouse,"

replied the girl, pointing.

The newcomer had addressed her in Spanish, and as he heard her reply, in pure

and liquid English, his eyes widened a trifle; but the familiar smile with which he

had greeted her left his face, and his parting bow was much more dignified

though no less profound than its predecessor.

And you, my sweet Penelope, out there somewhere you wait for me, With buds

of roses in your hair and kisses on your mouth.

Grayson and his employer both looked up as the words of Knibbs' poem floated

in to them through the open window.

"I wonder where that blew in from," remarked Grayson, as his eyes discovered

Bridge astride the tired pony, looking at him through the window. A polite smile

touched the stranger's lips as his eyes met Grayson's, and then wandered past

him to the imposing figure of the Easterner.

Good evening, gentlemen," said Bridge.

Evenin'," snapped Grayson. "Go over to the cookhouse and the Chink'll give you

something to eat. Turn your pony in the lower pasture. Smith'll show you where

to bunk tonight, an' you kin hev your breakfast in the mornin'. S'long!" The ranch

superintendent turned back to the paper in his hand which he had been

discussing with his employer at the moment of the interruption. He had volleyed

218

The Mucker