So they whiled away the afternoon by a tramp over the desert, and after supper turned Felicia over to the landlady at Delmonico's, the adobe hotel, which was clean if it was meager. They were sitting in the office, which boasted a rusty sheet-iron stove, a desk, and a hanging lamp, when a thin, middle-aged man came slowly in the door and walked hesitatingly up to Ernest.
"My name is Schmidt," he said. "I saw you at supper. Mr. Werner, he wrote me you vas coming and asked me to do vat I could for you."
Ernest and Roger shook hands delightedly.
"I come here for my health," Schmidt went on, "and maybe I help you. I vork for my board."
"We'll see how things are after we get settled," said Roger, carefully. "Have a cigar and tell me how you came to know Mr. Werner."
"I clerked by a bank he vas interested in," replied Schmidt, settling himself with the cigar. Roger and Ernest liked him at once, from his stiff brown pompadour and kindly blue eyes behind his spectacles to his strong, capable looking hands. Before they parted for the night it was agreed that Schmidt would come back with them when they came in for the freight. Austin had warned them that help was almost impossible to get in the desert and this seemed a wise thing to do.
The sun had not risen the next morning when the three climbed aboard the heavily laden wagon and started along the trail Hackett had carefully described for them.
It was not a smooth trail. Even the first eight or ten miles, mentioned with pride by the baggage man, were cut with draws and strewed with heavy rocks. But the air was like a northern May. The cactus was full of singing northern birds preparing for their spring migration. The horses plodded steadily without urging. The mountains lifted in colors ever more marvelous and the Adventure seemed to Roger satisfactory beyond expression.
"I think it's beautiful, Ern," he said at last.
"Gad, I don't," replied Ernest, wiping sand out of his eyes.