and opened the book. The smoke from his pipe kept off what few
mosquitoes were abroad in the scorching heat of midday.

A casual glance would at once have differentiated him from a native,
held him guiltless of any trace of native blood. His age might have been
anywhere between forty and fifty. His hair, now plentifully shot with
gray, had been a light, wavy brown. His eyes were a clear gray, and his
features were the antithesis of his high-cheekboned neighbors. Only the
weather-beaten hue of his skin, and the scores of fine seams radiating
from his eyes told of many seasons squinting against hot sunlight and
harsh winds.

Whatever his vocation and manner of living may have been he was now
deeply absorbed in the volume he held. A small child appeared on the
porch, a youngster of three or thereabouts, with swarthy skin, very dark
eyes, and inky-black hair. He went on all fours across Sam Carr's
extended feet several times. Carr remained oblivious, or at least
undisturbed, until the child stood up, laid hold of his knee and shook
it with playful persistence. Then Carr looked over his book, spoke to
the boy casually, shaking his head as he did so. The boy persisted after
the juvenile habit. Carr raised his voice. An Indian woman, not yet of
middle age but already inclining to the stoutness which overtakes women
of her race early in life, appeared in the doorway. She spoke sharply to
the boy in the deep, throaty language of her people. The boy, with a
last impish grin, gave the man's leg a final shake and scuttled indoors.
Carr impassively resumed his reading.

An hour or so later he lifted his eyes from the printed page at a
distant boom of thunder. The advanced edge of a black cloudbank rolling
swiftly up from the east was already dimming the brassy glare of the