whatever is a-goin' to become o' you when I'm gone!' I was the only one
that heard her say it. I caught her when she was fallin', an' I told
her I'd see that you didn't lack for nothin' while I lived an' that I'd
keep an eye on you an' see that nothin' wrong happened to you. Your
mother couldn't speak none then, Miss Donnie, but she give my hand a
little press to show she was on an' that whatever I did was done with
her say-so. Consequently, Miss Donnie, any time you need a friend you
just ring up the Silver Dollar saloon an' tell the barkeep to call
Hennage to the 'phone. Remember! I ain't the presumin' kind, but I can
be a good friend--"

He dodged back as if somebody had struck at him. Before Donna could
quite realize what he had been saying he had disappeared. She ran to
the iron-barred gate, looked out and saw him walking up the railroad
tracks toward San Pasqual. She called after him. He turned, waved his
hand and continued on--a great fat bow-legged commonplace figure of a
man, mopping his high bald forehead--a plain, lowly citizen of
uncertain morals; a sordid money-snatcher coming forth from his den of
iniquity to masquerade for an hour as the Angel of Hope, and returning
--hopeless.

For the last tie that bound Harley P. Hennage to San Pasqual was
severed. His soul was not mediocre; he could dwell no longer in San
Pasqual without feeling himself accursed. Never again could he bear to
sit on his high stool at the lunch counter in the railroad eating-
house, where he had boarded for ten years, and watch a stranger taking
cash. He had watched Donna's mother so long that the vigil had become a
part of his being--a sort of religious ceremony--and in this little
tragedy of life no understudy could ever star for Harley P. Her
beautiful sad eyes were closed forever now and the tri-daily joy of his