When we reached our hotel we found The Babe patiently awaiting us. His
complexion was slightly the worse for wear, but his eyes were as blue
as ever and almost as guileless. How wide they opened when he listened
to our story! How indignant he waxed when he learned that we had
condemned him, the son of an archdeacon, as an opium fiend. However,
he was very penitent, and returned with us to the ranch, where he dug
post-holes for a couple of months, and behaved like a model babe. Ajax
wrote to the archdeacon, and in due season The Babe returned to
England, where he wisely enlisted as a trooper in a smart cavalry
regiment, a corps that his grandfather had commanded. The pipeclay was
in his marrow, and he became in time rough-riding sergeant of the
regiment. I am told that soon he will be offered a commission.
This story contains two morals: both so obvious that they need not be
recorded.
XIII
THE BARON
Of the many queer characters who took up land in the brush hills near
our ranch none excited greater tongue-wagging than the Baron. The
squatters called him the Baron. He signed his name--I had to witness
his signature--Rene Bourgueil.
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