THE COMPLICITY OF ENOCH EMBODY.
I.
The afternoon train wound through the waving barley-fields of the Temecula Valley and shrieked its approach to the town of Muscatel. It was a mixed train, and half a dozen passengers alighted from the rear coach to stretch their legs while the freight was being unloaded.
Enoch Embody stood on the platform with the mail-bag in his hand, and listened to their time-worn pleasantries concerning the population of the city and the probable cause of the failure of the electric cars to connect with the train.
Enoch was an orthodox Friend. There was a hint of orthodoxy all over his thin, shaven countenance, except at the corners of his mouth, where it melted into the laxest liberality.
A swarthy young man, with a deep scar across his cheek, swung himself from the platform of the smoking-car, and came toward him.
"Is there a stopping-place in this burg?" he called out gayly.
"Thee'll find a hotel up the street on thy right," said Enoch.
The stranger looked at him curiously.
"By gum, you're a Quaker," he broke out, slapping Enoch's thin, high shoulder. "I haven't heard a 'thee' or a 'thou' since I was a kid. It's good for earache. Wait till I get my grip."