"I don't blame the poor devils. Think of waiting there until another
came by!" Roger washed the dryness out of his mouth with a generous
sip of his whisky and seltzer.
The fat man finished his glass of beer and rang for another. Greek sat
gazing out over the wide wastes of the desert. He had never before
been in a land like this. Now that more than two thousand miles
lengthened out between him and New York, he had felt himself more than
ever an exile. Heretofore he had given no thought to the people
dwelling here beyond the last reaches of those things for which
civilization stood to him. He was not in the habit of thinking deeply.
That part of the day's work could be left to William Conniston,
Senior, while William Conniston, Junior, more familiarly known to his
intimates as "Greek" Conniston, found that he could dispense with
thinking every bit as easily as he could spend the money which flowed
into his pockets. But now, as unexpectedly as a flash from a dead
fire, a girl's face had startled him, and he found himself almost
thinking--wondering--
Conniston turned swiftly. The girl was passing down the long narrow
hallway leading by the smoking-car, evidently seeking the
observation-car. Through the windows he could see her shoulders and
face as she walked by him. He could see that there was the same
confidence in her carriage now that there had been when she had jerked
her horse to a standstill and had thrown herself to the ground.
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