“I—I don’t know. Mr. Conley didn’t when he had it. But then he had to pay his cook.”
“Huh!” commented Blandy, between his teeth, and fell silent again. “This work’s too hard for you,” he said finally, when he could trust himself to speak. “You’ll drop in your tracks. Why, I could pick you up in my two hands like a rag and wring you.”
Her lips trembled. But she kept her face raised to his. “Oh, I don’t mind a little work,” she declared.
The flaxen-haired waiter entered the kitchen by the rear door. Blandy turned and went out through the other one. There was a gleam in the dog-like eyes once more, but it was not a gleam that was good to see.
Patton was still seated behind the cash-register. He smiled at Blandy again, and gave another sidewise jerk of his smooth head toward the kitchen. “It’s a pretty complete plant, isn’t it?” he questioned boastfully.
Blandy made no reply, only reached a big, freckled hand into a pocket, brought forth two silver dollars, and tossed them ringing upon the counter. Then he picked up his hat and went out.
But just in front of the entrance, he halted. Before him, across the wide, dusty street and the shining rails of the track, lay the level desert. It was mid-afternoon. And the grey wastes were swept by waves of heat that sank and rose unceasingly, now almost as plain to the eye as flames would have been, now shadowy. Blandy measured every blistering mile, from the rough, unroofed porch on which he stood to the distant horizon, where a mountain range traced an uneven line upon the misty blue of the sky. And as he stood, his arms hanging loose at his sides, his shoulders lowered, his head sunk between them, he was the very figure of indecision.
Finally, he straightened, turned about, opened the restaurant door and re-entered. Patton was smoking, a long cigar in one corner of his mouth, and tilted upward; one knee crossed upon the other.
Blandy walked to the counter. “Patton,” he began, “this ain’t no kind of a business for you. You won’t make your salt here in Searles. Now, I’ve got a proposition to make you—you and Polly. But it mustn’t go no further.” He gave a quick glance about him.
“I’m not dying to stay in Searles,” observed Patton, blowing smoke.