But she was not equipped for thinking, all her life had been merely action, action, action, and now, as she strove to build out some logical sequence and find her destiny in it, she failed miserably, and fell back upon herself. She was one of those single-minded people who give themselves up to emotion rarely, but when they do their whole body, their whole soul burns in the flame.
Into her mind came a phrase she had heard in her childhood. On the outskirts of Eldara there was a little shack owned by a Mexican—José, he was called, and nothing else, "Greaser" José. One night an alarm of fire was given in Eldara, and the whole populace turned out to enjoy the sight; it was a festival occasion, in a way. It was the house of Greaser José.
The cowpunchers manned a bucket line, but the source of water was far away, the line too long, and the flames gained faster than they could be quenched. All through the work of fire-fighting Greaser José was everywhere about the house, flinging buckets of water through the windows into the red furnace within; his wife and the two children stood stupidly, staring, dumb. But in the end, when the fire was towering above the roof of the house, roaring and crackling, the Mexican suddenly raised a long arm and called to the bucket line, "It is done. Señors, I thank you."
Then he had folded his arms and repeated in a monotone, over and over again: "Todo es perdo; todo es perdo!"
His wife came to him, frantic, wailing, and threw her arms around his neck. He merely repeated with heavy monotony: "Todo es perdo; todo es perdo!"
The phrase clung in the mind of the girl; and she rose at last and went back to her bunk, repeating: "Todo es perdo; todo es perdo! All is lost; all is lost!"
No tears were in her eyes; they were wide and solemn, looking up to the shadows of the ceiling, and so she went to sleep with the solemn Spanish phrase echoing through her whole being: "Todo es perdo!"
She woke with the smell of frying bacon pungent in her nostrils.