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It was the second day after his visit to La Mision Perdida. He was sitting by his desk, at sunset, in the faint afterglow of the western sky, which flooded the floor through the open door. He was writing, but presently lifted his head, with an impatient air, and called out, "Harrison!"
The shadow of Dr. West's foreman appeared at the door.
"Who's that you're talking to?"
"Hire him, or send him about his business. Don't stand gabbling there."
"That's just it, sir. He won't hire for a week or a day. He says he'll do an odd job for his supper and a shakedown, but no more."
"Pack him off! . . . Stay. . . . What's he like?"
"Like the rest of 'em, only a little lazier, I reckon."
"Umph! Fetch him in."
The foreman disappeared, and returned with the tramp already known to the reader. He was a little dirtier and grimier than on the morning he had addressed Maruja at La Mision Perdida; but he wore the same air of sullen indifference, occasionally broken by furtive observation. His laziness--or weariness--if the term could describe the lassitude of perfect physical condition, seemed to have increased; and he leaned against the door as the Doctor regarded him with slow contempt. The silence continuing, he deliberately allowed himself to slip down into a sitting position in the doorway, where he remained.
"You seem to have been born tired," said the Doctor, grimly.
"What have you got to say for yourself?"
"I told HIM," said the tramp, nodding his head towards the foreman, "what I'd do for a supper and a bed. I don't want anything but that."
"And if you don't get what you want on your own conditions, what'll you do?" asked the Doctor, dryly.
"Where did you come from?"
"Where are you going?"
"Leave him to me," said Dr. West to his foreman. The man smiled, and withdrew.
The Doctor bent his head again over his accounts. The tramp, sitting in the doorway, reached out his hand, pulled a young wheat-stalk that had sprung up near the doorstep, and slowly nibbled it. He did not raise his eyes to the Doctor, but sat, a familiar culprit awaiting sentence, without fear, without hope, yet not without a certain philosophical endurance of the situation.
"Go into that passage," said the Doctor, lifting his head as he turned a page of his ledger, "and on the shelf you'll find some clothing stores for the men. Pick out something to fit you."
The tramp arose, moved towards the passage, and stopped. "It's for the job only, you understand?" he said.
"For the job," answered the Doctor.
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