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XIV
JIM'S PUP
Jim Misterton was a quiet, reserved fellow, who had come straight to
Paradise from a desk in some dingy London counting-house. He told us
that something was wrong with his lungs, and that the simple life had
been prescribed. He was very green, very sanguine, and engaged to be
married--a secret confided to us later, when acquaintance had ripened
into friendship. Every Sunday Jim would ride down to our ranch, sup
with us, and smoke three pipes upon the verandah, describing at great
length the process of transmuting the wilderness into a garden. He
built a small board-and-batten house, planted a vineyard and orchard,
bought a couple of cows and an incubator. Reserved about matters
personal to himself, he never grew tired of describing his
possessions, nor of speculating in regard to their possibilities. If
ever a man counted his chickens before the eggs had been placed in the
incubator, Jim Misterton was he.
Ajax and I listened in silence to these outpourings. Ajax contended--
perhaps rightly--that Misterton's optimism was part of the "cure." He
bade me remark the young fellow's sparkling eyes and ruddy cheeks.
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