His ranch house was a roomy, comfortable place; one half was inhabited by Old Man Durfee, who ran the ranch, and the other half was inhabited by Sandy and his frequent guests. At the present moment he had three guests besides Abel Dorales. Two were withered, wrinkled old bucks from the Cochiti pueblo, and these were quartered in the bunk house a half mile distant, by the corrals. The third was the eminent archæologist previously mentioned, who had arrived to witness the establishment of Sandy as a scientist.
“To-morrow is the big day, eh?” Sandy Mackintavers spread his square bulk to the blaze in the big library fireplace, and surveyed his scientific guest with complacent expectation. “Dorales is goin’ to bring them bucks up here. We’ll have the little gods all ready, then we’ll see what happens.”
He glanced at the wide mantel whereon sat seven worn stone images, grinning widely over the room.
“You’ve not coached them, of course?” demanded the wary scientist. “If they had an inkling of what you wanted, they’d say anything to please you.”
“Huh!” snorted Mackintavers with honest indignation. “I should say not! Surprise is the thing, professor. Aiblins, now, I’ll explain to ye the system we’ve invented to make these Cochiti bucks talk—but first, take a look at this. I’m coming fast, eh? Aiblins, in another year or two I’ll be having a world-wide reputation, eh? Just look at this, now.”
He handed the scientist a letter. Now, Mackintavers himself could not read that letter; but it had been translated for him, and he was inordinately proud of it.
The scientist glanced at the letter-head above, a large and flaunting letter-head of the Société Académique, and below, in very small letters, the remainder of the legend: d’ethnologie Amerique. In other words, not particularly good French, denoting the Academic Society of American Ethnology, of Paris.
The eminent scientist repressed the smile that rose to his lips. It was obvious that Sandy, keenly canny in most things, was highly susceptible to this sort of flattery.
“I’m sending for their gold medal,” went on the speaker. “Costs about fifteen bucks, but I guess it’ll be worth it when the papers write me up, eh? They sent along an engraved parchment to show I’m a member. Some day I’ll go to Paris and visit ’em.”
The eminent scientist, who knew all the ins and outs of that game, did not spoil poor Sandy’s dream by any intrusion of cold and hard facts. Instead, he reflected to himself upon the odd twists and quirks of character, which would bring such a man as Sandy Mackintavers into the toils of a vain ambition, and into the nets of smooth sharpers who knew well how to flatter the American ignoramus into parting with his dollars.