“You like ranching, then?”
“Gee! but I’d love to be a real rancher! There’s not only money in cattle and horses, on a big scale, but it’s such a fine life. Outdoors all the time!... Oh, well, I do have the outdoors as much as anybody. But for mother and the kids—I’d like to do better by them.”
“I saw the youngsters and I’d like to get acquainted. Tell me about them.”
“Nothing much to tell. They’re like little Indians. Tommy’s three, Betty’s four, Hal’s five. He was a baby when we came West. The trip was too hard on him. He’s been delicate. But he’s slowly getting stronger.”
“Well! You’ve a fine family. How are you going to educate them?”
“That’s our problem. Mother and I must do our best—until—maybe we can send them to school at San Diego.”
“When your ship comes in?”
“Yes; I’m always hoping for that. But first I’d like my ship to start out, so it can come back loaded.”
The lad laughed. He was imaginative, full of fire and pathos, yet clear headed and courageous, neither blind to the handicap under which he labored nor morose at his fetters.
“Yes, if a man waits for his ship to come in—sometimes it never comes,” said Adam.