As a last characteristic, Annixter pretended to be a woman-hater, for no other reason than that he was a very bull-calf of awkwardness in feminine surroundings. Feemales! Rot! There was a fine way for a man to waste his time and his good money, lally gagging with a lot of feemales. No, thank you; none of it in HIS, if you please. Once only he had an affair—a timid, little creature in a glove-cleaning establishment in Sacramento, whom he had picked up, Heaven knew how. After his return to his ranch, a correspondence had been maintained between the two, Annixter taking the precaution to typewrite his letters, and never affixing his signature, in an excess of prudence. He furthermore made carbon copies of all his letters, filing them away in a compartment of his safe. Ah, it would be a clever feemale who would get him into a mess. Then, suddenly smitten with a panic terror that he had committed himself, that he was involving himself too deeply, he had abruptly sent the little woman about her business. It was his only love affair. After that, he kept himself free. No petticoats should ever have a hold on him. Sure not.
As Presley came up to the edge of the porch, pushing his bicycle in front of him, Annixter excused himself for not getting up, alleging that the cramps returned the moment he was off his back.
“What are you doing up this way?” he demanded.
“Oh, just having a look around,” answered Presley. “How's the ranch?”
“Say,” observed the other, ignoring his question, “what's this I hear about Derrick giving his tenants the bounce, and working Los Muertos himself—working ALL his land?”
Presley made a sharp movement of impatience with his free hand. “I've heard nothing else myself since morning. I suppose it must be so.”
“Huh!” grunted Annixter, spitting out a prune stone. “You give Magnus Derrick my compliments and tell him he's a fool.” “What do you mean?”
“I suppose Derrick thinks he's still running his mine, and that the same principles will apply to getting grain out of the earth as to getting gold. Oh, let him go on and see where he brings up. That's right, there's your Western farmer,” he exclaimed contemptuously. “Get the guts out of your land; work it to death; never give it a rest. Never alternate your crop, and then when your soil is exhausted, sit down and roar about hard times.”
“I suppose Magnus thinks the land has had rest enough these last two dry seasons,” observed Presley. “He has raised no crop to speak of for two years. The land has had a good rest.”
“Ah, yes, that sounds well,” Annixter contradicted, unwilling to be convinced. “In a way, the land's been rested, and then, again, in a way, it hasn't.”