Roger was finding that the regular, well cooked meals and the home life of the adobe was making a great difference in his mental as well as his physical condition. In spite of the nerve strain of the past months, he was beginning to feel that life never had been so much worth while as now.
On the Sunday afternoon before the test of the rebuilt plant, Ernest, driven by Hackett, jogged up to the corral.
After the noisy and excited greetings and after Ernest's delight over the moving of the plant had been expressed, Ernest slapped Roger on the back. They all were talking at once, on the adobe porch.
"Here, put your eye on that, you emaciated desert blister!"
Ernest pulled a bill case carefully from his inner breast pocket and carefully extracted a check which he handed to Roger. It was for five thousand dollars. Roger stared at it stupidly.
"Browning! Who on earth is he?" he ejaculated.
"Smithsonian! I had the check made out to me. It was simpler. But I'm going to make it payable to you, right now."
He sat down at the table, pulled out his fountain pen and, signing the check, handed it over to Roger. The room was silent for a moment then, "Ernest," faltered Roger, his thin tanned face working. "I can't tell you—why old man, if I'd had a brother he couldn't have done for me what you have done. It's wonderful! How did you do it, Ern?"
Ernest beamed. "There's more where that came from. They're crazy about your whole scheme."
Roger stood staring at his friend, lost in admiration. "You are a genius, Ernest! Your talents as a salesman are lost on a college professor."