“i don't know horses,” saxon said. “i've never been on one's back, and the only ones i've tried to drive were single, and lame, or almost falling down, or something. but i'm not afraid of horses. i just love them. i was born loving them, i guess.”

billy threw an admiring, appreciative glance at her.

“that's the stuff. that's what i like in a woman—grit. some of the girls i've had out—well, take it from me, they made me sick. oh, i'm hep to 'em. nervous, an' trembly, an' screechy, an' wabbly. i reckon they come out on my account an' not for the ponies. but me for the brave kid that likes the ponies. you're the real goods, saxon, honest to god you are. why, i can talk like a streak with you. the rest of 'em make me sick. i'm like a clam. they don't know nothin', an' they're that scared all the time—well, i guess you get me.”

“you have to be born to love horses, maybe,” she answered. “maybe it's because i always think of my father on his roan war-horse that makes me love horses. but, anyway, i do. when i was a little girl i was drawing horses all the time. my mother always encouraged me. i've a scrapbook mostly filled with horses i drew when i was little. do you know, billy, sometimes i dream i actually own a horse, all my own. and lots of times i dream i'm on a horse's back, or driving him.”

“i'll let you drive 'em, after a while, when they've worked their edge off. they're pullin' now.—there, put your hands in front of mine—take hold tight. feel that? sure you feel it. an' you ain't feelin' it all by a long shot. i don't dast slack, you bein' such a lightweight.”

her eyes sparkled as she felt the apportioned pull of the mouths of the beautiful, live things; and he, looking at her, sparkled with her in her delight.

“what's the good of a woman if she can't keep up with a man?” he broke out enthusiastically.

“people that like the same things always get along best together,” she answered, with a triteness that concealed the joy that was hers at being so spontaneously in touch with him.

“why, saxon, i've fought battles, good ones, frazzlin' my silk away to beat the band before whisky-soaked, smokin' audiences of rotten fight-fans, that just made me sick clean through. an' them, that couldn't take just one stiff jolt or hook to jaw or stomach, a-cheerin' me an' yellin' for blood. blood, mind you! an' them without the blood of a shrimp in their bodies. why, honest, now, i'd sooner fight before an audience of one—you for instance, or anybody i liked. it'd do me proud. but them sickenin', sap-headed stiffs, with the grit of rabbits and the silk of mangy ky-yi's, a-cheerin' me—me! can you blame me for quittin' the dirty game?—why, i'd sooner fight before broke-down old plugs of work-horses that's candidates for chicken-meat, than before them rotten bunches of stiffs with nothin' thicker'n water in their veins, an' contra costa water at that when the rains is heavy on the hills.”

“i... i didn't know prizefighting was like that,” she faltered, as she released her hold on the lines and sank back again beside him.

“it ain't the fightin', it's the fight-crowds,” he defended with instant jealousy. “of course, fightin' hurts a young fellow because it frazzles the silk outa him an' all that. but it's the low-lifers in the audience that gets me. why the good things they say to me, the praise an' that, is insulting. do you get me? it makes me cheap. think of it—booze-guzzlin' stiffs that 'd be afraid to mix it with a sick cat, not fit to hold the coat of any decent man, think of them a-standin' up on their hind legs an' yellin' an' cheerin' me—me!”

“ha! ha! what d'ye think of that? ain't he a rogue?”

a big bulldog, sliding obliquely and silently across the street, unconcerned with the team he was avoiding, had passed so close that prince, baring his teeth like a stallion, plunged his head down against reins and check in an effort to seize the dog.

“now he's some fighter, that prince. an' he's natural. he didn't make that reach just for some low-lifer to yell'm on. he just done it outa pure cussedness and himself. that's clean. that's right. because it's natural. but them fight-fans! honest to god, saxon....”

and saxon, glimpsing him sidewise, as he watched the horses and their way on the sunday morning streets, checking them back suddenly and swerving to avoid two boys coasting across street on a toy wagon, saw in him deeps and intensities, all the magic connotations of temperament, the glimmer and hint of rages profound, bleaknesses as cold and far as the stars, savagery as keen as a wolf's and clean as a stallion's, wrath as implacable as a destroying angel's, and youth that was fire and life beyond time and place. she was awed and fascinated, with the hunger of woman bridging the vastness to him, daring to love him with arms and breast that ached to him, murmuring to herself and through all the halls of her soul, “you dear, you dear.”

“honest to god, saxon,” he took up the broken thread, “they's times when i've hated them, when i wanted to jump over the ropes and wade into them, knock-down and drag-out, an' show'm what fightin' was. take that night with billy murphy. billy murphy!—if you only knew him. my friend. as clean an' game a boy as ever jumped inside the ropes to take the decision. him! we went to the durant school together. we grew up chums. his fight was my fight. my trouble was his trouble. we both took to the fightin' game. they matched us. not the first time. twice we'd fought draws. once the decision was his; once it was mine. the fifth fight of two lovin' men that just loved each other. he's three years older'n me. he's a wife and two or three kids, an' i know them, too. and he's my friend. get it?

“i'm ten pounds heavier—but with heavyweights that 's all right. he can't time an' distance as good as me, an' i can keep set better, too. but he's cleverer an' quicker. i never was quick like him. we both can take punishment, an' we're both two-handed, a wallop in all our fists. i know the kick of his, an' he knows my kick, an' we're both real respectful. and we're even-matched. two draws, and a decision to each. honest, i ain't any kind of a hunch who's goin' to win, we're that even.

“now, the fight.—you ain't squeamish, are you?”

“no, no,” she cried. “i'd just love to hear—you are so wonderful.”

he took the praise with a clear, unwavering look, and without hint of acknowledgment.

“we go along—six rounds—seven rounds—eight rounds; an' honors even. i've been timin' his rushes an' straight-leftin' him, an' meetin' his duck with a wicked little right upper-cut, an' he's shaken me on the jaw an' walloped my ears till my head's all singin' an' buzzin'. an' everything lovely with both of us, with a noise like a draw decision in sight. twenty rounds is the distance, you know.

“an' then his bad luck comes. we're just mixin' into a clinch that ain't arrived yet, when he shoots a short hook to my head—his left, an' a real hay-maker if it reaches my jaw. i make a forward duck, not quick enough, an' he lands bingo on the side of my head. honest to god, saxon, it's that heavy i see some stars. but it don't hurt an' ain't serious, that high up where the bone's thick. an' right there he finishes himself, for his bad thumb, which i've known since he first got it as a kid fightin' in the sandlot at watts tract—he smashes that thumb right there, on my hard head, back into the socket with an out-twist, an' all the old cords that'd never got strong gets theirs again. i didn't mean it. a dirty trick, fair in the game, though, to make a guy smash his hand on your head. but not between friends. i couldn't a-done that to bill murphy for a million dollars. it was a accident, just because i was slow, because i was born slow.

“the hurt of it! honest, saxon, you don't know what hurt is till you've got a old hurt like that hurt again. what can billy murphy do but slow down? he's got to. he ain't fightin' two-handed any more. he knows it; i know it; the referee knows it; but nobody else. he goes on a-moving that left of his like it's all right. but it ain't. it's hurtin' him like a knife dug into him. he don't dast strike a real blow with that left of his. but it hurts, anyway. just to move it or not move it hurts, an' every little dab-feint that i'm too wise to guard, knowin' there's no weight behind, why them little dab-touches on that poor thumb goes right to the heart of him, an' hurts worse than a thousand boils or a thousand knockouts—just hurts all over again, an' worse, each time an' touch.

“now suppose he an' me was boxin' for fun, out in the back yard, an' he hurts his thumb that way, why we'd have the gloves off in a jiffy an' i'd be putting cold compresses on that poor thumb of his an' bandagin' it that tight to keep the inflammation down. but no. this is a fight for fight-fans that's paid their admission for blood, an' blood they're goin' to get. they ain't men. they're wolves.

“he has to go easy, now, an' i ain't a-forcin' him none. i'm all shot to pieces. i don't know what to do. so i slow down, an' the fans get hep to it. 'why don't you fight?' they begin to yell; 'fake! fake!' 'why don't you kiss'm?' 'lovin' cup for yours, bill roberts!' an' that sort of bunk.

“'fight!' says the referee to me, low an' savage. 'fight, or i'll disqualify you—you, bill, i mean you.' an' this to me, with a touch on the shoulder so they's no mistakin'.

“it ain't pretty. it ain't right. d'ye know what we was fightin' for? a hundred bucks. think of it! an' the game is we got to do our best to put our man down for the count because of the fans has bet on us. sweet, ain't it? well, that's my last fight. it finishes me deado. never again for yours truly.

“'quit,' i says to billy murphy in a clinch; 'for the love of god, bill, quit.' an' he says back, in a whisper, 'i can't, bill—you know that.'

“an' then the referee drags us apart, an' a lot of the fans begins to hoot an' boo.

“'now kick in, damn you, bill roberts, an' finish'm' the referee says to me, an' i tell'm to go to hell as bill an' me flop into the next clinch, not hittin', an' bill touches his thumb again, an' i see the pain shoot across his face. game? that good boy's the limit. an' to look into the eyes of a brave man that's sick with pain, an' love 'm, an' see love in them eyes of his, an' then have to go on givin' 'm pain—call that sport? i can't see it. but the crowd's got its money on us. we don't count. we've sold ourselves for a hundred bucks, an' we gotta deliver the goods.

“let me tell you, saxon, honest to god, that was one of the times i wanted to go through the ropes an' drop them fans a-yellin' for blood an' show 'em what blood is.

“'for god's sake finish me, bill,' bill says to me in that clinch; 'put her over an' i'll fall for it, but i can't lay down.'

“d'ye want to know? i cry there, right in the ring, in that clinch. the weeps for me. 'i can't do it, bill,' i whisper back, hangin' onto'm like a brother an' the referee ragin' an' draggin' at us to get us apart, an' all the wolves in the house snarlin'.

“'you got 'm!' the audience is yellin'. 'go in an' finish 'm!' 'the hay for him, bill; put her across to the jaw an' see 'm fall!'

“'you got to, bill, or you're a dog,' bill says, lookin' love at me in his eyes as the referee's grip untangles us clear.

“an' them wolves of fans yellin': 'fake! fake! fake!' like that, an' keepin' it up.

“well, i done it. they's only that way out. i done it. by god, i done it. i had to. i feint for 'm, draw his left, duck to the right past it, takin' it across my shoulder, an come up with my right to his jaw. an' he knows the trick. he's hep. he's beaten me to it an' blocked it with his shoulder a thousan' times. but this time he don't. he keeps himself wide open on purpose. blim! it lands. he's dead in the air, an' he goes down sideways, strikin' his face first on the rosin-canvas an' then layin' dead, his head twisted under 'm till you'd a-thought his neck was broke. me—i did that for a hundred bucks an' a bunch of stiffs i'd be ashamed to wipe my feet on. an' then i pick bill up in my arms an' carry'm to his corner, an' help bring'm around. well, they ain't no kick comin'. they pay their money an' they get their blood, an' a knockout. an' a better man than them, that i love, layin' there dead to the world with a skinned face on the mat.”

for a moment he was still, gazing straight before him at the horses, his face hard and angry. he sighed, looked at saxon, and smiled.

“an' i quit the game right there. an' billy murphy's laughed at me for it. he still follows it. a side-line, you know, because he works at a good trade. but once in a while, when the house needs paintin', or the doctor bills are up, or his oldest kid wants a bicycle, he jumps out an' makes fifty or a hundred bucks before some of the clubs. i want you to meet him when it comes handy. he's some boy i'm tellin' you. but it did make me sick that night.”

again the harshness and anger were in his face, and saxon amazed herself by doing unconsciously what women higher in the social scale have done with deliberate sincerity. her hand went out impulsively to his holding the lines, resting on top of it for a moment with quick, firm pressure. her reward was a smile from lips and eyes, as his face turned toward her.

“gee!” he exclaimed. “i never talk a streak like this to anybody. i just hold my hush an' keep my thinks to myself. but, somehow, i guess it's funny, i kind of have a feelin' i want to make good with you. an' that's why i'm tellin' you my thinks. anybody can dance.”

the way led uptown, past the city hall and the fourteenth street skyscrapers, and out broadway to mountain view. turning to the right at the cemetery, they climbed the piedmont heights to blair park and plunged into the green coolness of jack hayes canyon. saxon could not suppress her surprise and joy at the quickness with which they covered the ground.

“they are beautiful,” she said. “i never dreamed i'd ever ride behind horses like them. i'm afraid i'll wake up now and find it's a dream. you know, i dream horses all the time. i'd give anything to own one some time.”

“it's funny, ain't it?” billy answered. “i like horses that way. the boss says i'm a wooz at horses. an' i know he's a dub. he don't know the first thing. an' yet he owns two hundred big heavy draughts besides this light drivin' pair, an' i don't own one.”

“yet god makes the horses,” saxon said.

“it's a sure thing the boss don't. then how does he have so many?—two hundred of 'em, i'm tellin' you. he thinks he likes horses. honest to god, saxon, he don't like all his horses as much as i like the last hair on the last tail of the scrubbiest of the bunch. yet they're his. wouldn't it jar you?”

“wouldn't it?” saxon laughed appreciatively. “i just love fancy shirtwaists, an' i spent my life ironing some of the beautifullest i've ever seen. it's funny, an' it isn't fair.”

billy gritted his teeth in another of his rages.

“an' the way some of them women gets their shirtwaists. it makes me sick, thinkin' of you ironin' 'em. you know what i mean, saxon. they ain't no use wastin' words over it. you know. i know. everybody knows. an' it's a hell of a world if men an' women sometimes can't talk to each other about such things.” his manner was almost apologetic yet it was defiantly and assertively right. “i never talk this way to other girls. they'd think i'm workin up to designs on 'em. they make me sick the way they're always lookin' for them designs. but you're different. i can talk to you that way. i know i've got to. it's the square thing. you're like billy murphy, or any other man a man can talk to.”

she sighed with a great happiness, and looked at him with unconscious, love-shining eyes.

“it's the same way with me,” she said. “the fellows i've run with i've never dared let talk about such things, because i knew they'd take advantage of it. why, all the time, with them, i've a feeling that we're cheating and lying to each other, playing a game like at a masquerade ball.” she paused for a moment, hesitant and debating, then went on in a queer low voice. “i haven't been asleep. i've seen... and heard. i've had my chances, when i was that tired of the laundry i'd have done almost anything. i could have got those fancy shirtwaists... an' all the rest... and maybe a horse to ride. there was a bank cashier... married, too, if you please. he talked to me straight out. i didn't count, you know. i wasn't a girl, with a girl's feelings, or anything. i was nobody. it was just like a business talk. i learned about men from him. he told me what he'd do. he...”

her voice died away in sadness, and in the silence she could hear billy grit his teeth.

“you can't tell me,” he cried. “i know. it's a dirty world—an unfair, lousy world. i can't make it out. they's no squareness in it.—women, with the best that's in 'em, bought an' sold like horses. i don't understand women that way. i don't understand men that way. i can't see how a man gets anything but cheated when he buys such things. it's funny, ain't it? take my boss an' his horses. he owns women, too. he might a-owned you, just because he's got the price. an', saxon, you was made for fancy shirtwaists an' all that, but, honest to god, i can't see you payin' for them that way. it'd be a crime—”

he broke off abruptly and reined in the horses. around a sharp turn, speeding down the grade upon them, had appeared an automobile. with slamming of brakes it was brought to a stop, while the faces of the occupants took new lease of interest of life and stared at the young man and woman in the light rig that barred the way. billy held up his hand.

“take the outside, sport,” he said to the chauffeur.

“nothin' doin', kiddo,” came the answer, as the chauffeur measured with hard, wise eyes the crumbling edge of the road and the downfall of the outside bank.

“then we camp,” billy announced cheerfully. “i know the rules of the road. these animals ain't automobile broke altogether, an' if you think i'm goin' to have 'em shy off the grade you got another guess comin'.”

a confusion of injured protestation arose from those that sat in the car.

“you needn't be a road-hog because you're a rube,” said the chauffeur. “we ain't a-goin' to hurt your horses. pull out so we can pass. if you don't...”

“that'll do you, sport,” was billy's retort. “you can't talk that way to yours truly. i got your number an' your tag, my son. you're standin' on your foot. back up the grade an' get off of it. stop on the outside at the first psssin'-place an' we'll pass you. you've got the juice. throw on the reverse.”

after a nervous consultation, the chauffeur obeyed, and the car backed up the hill and out of sight around the turn.

“them cheap skates,” billy sneered to saxon, “with a couple of gallons of gasoline an' the price of a machine a-thinkin' they own the roads your folks an' my folks made.”

“talkin' all night about it?” came the chauffeur's voice from around the bend. “get a move on. you can pass.”

“get off your foot,” billy retorted contemptuously. “i'm a-comin' when i'm ready to come, an' if you ain't given room enough i'll go clean over you an' your load of chicken meat.”

he slightly slacked the reins on the restless, head-tossing animals, and without need of chirrup they took the weight of the light vehicle and passed up the hill and apprehensively on the inside of the purring machine.

“where was we?” billy queried, as the clear road showed in front. “yep, take my boss. why should he own two hundred horses, an' women, an' the rest, an' you an' me own nothin'?”

“you own your silk, billy,” she said softly.

“an' you yours. yet we sell it to 'em like it was cloth across the counter at so much a yard. i guess you're hep to what a few more years in the laundry'll do to you. take me. i'm sellin' my silk slow every day i work. see that little finger?” he shifted the reins to one hand for a moment and held up the free hand for inspection. “i can't straighten it like the others, an' it's growin'. i never put it out fightin'. the teamin's done it. that's silk gone across the counter, that's all. ever see a old four-horse teamster's hands? they look like claws they're that crippled an' twisted.”

“things weren't like that in the old days when our folks crossed the plains,” she answered. “they might a-got their fingers twisted, but they owned the best goin' in the way of horses and such.”

“sure. they worked for themselves. they twisted their fingers for themselves. but i'm twistin' my fingers for my boss. why, d'ye know, saxon, his hands is soft as a woman's that's never done any work. yet he owns the horses an' the stables, an' never does a tap of work, an' i manage to scratch my meal-ticket an' my clothes. it's got my goat the way things is run. an' who runs 'em that way? that's what i want to know. times has changed. who changed 'em?”

“god didn't.”

“you bet your life he didn't. an' that's another thing that gets me. who's god anyway? if he's runnin' things—an' what good is he if he ain't?—then why does he let my boss, an' men like that cashier you mentioned, why does he let them own the horses, an' buy the women, the nice little girls that oughta be lovin' their own husbands, an' havin' children they're not ashamed of, an' just bein' happy accordin' to their nature?”

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