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 on work-days at the patron's expense, a privilege that Simon never had been known to forego.

Simon did not owe the patron. He was not obliged to pledge his services, and the services of his unborn, for the chunks of thick, age-yellow salt pork, the cuts of tenuous beef, the pounds of Yankee lard, issued from the great patron's store. Simon's lot was that of a man who could take his wife and children and depart on the day that suited his fancy to go.

Simon was loitering between his house and Don Felipe's office, where he had been dawdling in the aimless, lounging way that a Mexican can pass the time with his cigarette, as Henderson started on his merciful mission to the stable. He joined Henderson when he passed, continuing with him on his way after asking the object of his activities at that hour.

Lately Simon had installed himself as preceptor to Henderson in his struggle with the Spanish tongue. He insisted that the only way a man could learn a language was to use it, in the way that he must handle the lines for himself if he ever expected to drive eight mules. Henderson agreed with him in this contention, although it was a strain on his slender knowledge of the language to keep abreast with the fervid flow of the teamster's speech.

When a doubt rose in Simon's mind he made himself clear with an English word, if he had it; if not, with some expletive that was picturesque on