socialistic ideal which better men than themselves had only dreamed of.
Fleming fell back into this refined barbarism, giving little thought to
his woodland experience, and no revelation of it to his partners. He had
transacted their business at the mining town. His deviations en route
were nothing to them, and small account to himself.
The third day after his return he was lying under a redwood when his
partner approached him.
"You aren't uneasy in your mind about any unpaid bill--say a wash
bill--that you're owing?"
"Why?"
"There's a big nigger woman in camp looking for you; she's got a folded
account paper in her hand. It looks deucedly like a bill."
"There must be some mistake," suggested Fleming, sitting up.
"She says not, and she's got your name pat enough! Faulkner" (his other
partner) "headed her straight up the gulch, away from camp, while I came
down to warn you. So if you choose to skedaddle into the brush out there
and lie low until we get her away, we'll fix it!"
"Nonsense! I'll see her."
His partner looked aghast at this temerity, but Fleming, jumping to his
feet, at once set out to meet his mysterious visitor. This was no easy
matter, as the ingenious Faulkner was laboriously leading his charge up
the steep gulch road, with great politeness, but many audible misgivings
as to whether this was not "Jack Fleming's day for going to Jamestown."
He was further lightening the journey by cheering accounts of the recent
depredations of bears and panthers in that immediate locality. When
overtaken by Fleming he affected a start of joyful surprise, to conceal
the look of warning which Fleming did not heed,--having no eyes but
for Faulkners companion. She was a very fat negro woman, panting with
exertion and suppressed impatience. Fleming's heart was filled with
compunction.
"Is you Marse Fleming?" she gasped.
"Yes," said Fleming gently. "What can I do for you?"
"Well! Ye kin pick dis yar insek, dis caterpillier," she said, pointing
to Faulkner, "off my paf. Ye kin tell dis yar chipmunk dat when he comes
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