XIII. What Mr. Cherry Saw
Bob Eden stepped forward. “Good evening,” he said. “I hope we haven’t disturbed you.”
Moving with some difficulty, the old man descended from the platform to the sandy floor of the desert. “How do,” he said gravely, shaking hands. He also shook hands with Paula Wendell. “How do, miss. No, you didn’t disturb me none. Just takin’my forty winks—I ain’t so spry as I used to be.”
“We happened to be passing—” Eden began.
“Ain’t many pass this way,” returned the old man. “Cherry’s my name—William I. Cherry. Make yourselves to home. Parlor chairs is kind o’scarce, miss.”
“Of course,” said the girl.
“We’ll stop a minute, if we may,” suggested Eden.
“It’s comin’on supper time,” the old man replied hospitably. “How about grub? There’s a can o’beans, an’a mite o’bacon—”
“Couldn’t think of it,” Eden told him. “You’re mighty kind, but we’ll be back in Seven Palms shortly.” Paula Wendell sat down on the car steps, and Eden took a seat on the warm sand. The old man went to the rear of the trolley and returned with an empty soap-box. After
