Hill, where lanterns glow and my ten children are gathered round.”
“Ten!” cried Eden. “Great Scott—you are a father.”
“Very proud one,” assented Chan. “You are going from here?”
“I’m running in town for a while. Miss Wendell called up—it seems the picture people have arrived. By the way, I just remembered—tomorrow is the day Madden promised they could come out here. I bet the old man’s clean forgot it.”
“Most likely. Better not to tell him, he might refuse permission. I have unlimited yearning to see movies in throes of being born. Should I go home and report that experience to my eldest daughter, who is all time sunk in movie magazines, ancestor worship breaks out plenty strong at my house.”
Eden laughed. “Well then, let’s hope you get the chance. I’ll be back early.”
A few minutes later he was again in the flivver, under the platinum stars. He thought fleetingly of Louie Wong, buried now in the bleak little graveyard back of Eldorado, but his mind turned quickly to happier things. With a lively feeling of anticipation he climbed between the twin hills at the gateway, and the yellow lights of the desert town were winking at him.
The moment he crossed the threshold of the Desert Edge Hotel, he knew this was no ordinary night in Eldorado. From the parlor at the left came the strains of giddy, inharmonious music, laughter, and a medley of voices. Paula Wendell met him and led him in.
The stuffy little room, dated by heavy mission furniture and bits of broken plaster hanging crazily from the ceiling, was renewing
