"
"'Joseph Gould Hudson, University of Yalvard,'" read Frank from the
fly-leaf of the _Memorabilia_. "Is that your name, Mr. Hudson?"
"I'm so borne on the Yalvard catalogue."
"Please explain, Mr. Hudson," I said, "how a college boy happens to be
in Arizona running the gantlet of this mail-route and making up
conditions in Greek?"
"I was stroke in the crew that won the championship for Yalvard at New
London one year ago, and got behind in these. I was conditioned, and
being ashamed to face an angry father, struck out for myself on the
Pacific coast. I drifted about from mining-camp to cattle-range until
I was dead broke; this place offered, and I took it because I could
find nothing else. I've had lots of opportunities for reflection on
the Xuacaxella. I'm the repentant prodigal going home to his father."
"Oh, you are no prodigal, Mr. Hudson," observed Henry. "We've heard
all about you; you are too brave."
"Thank you, Sergeant Henry. No, I've not wasted my substance in
riotous living, nor have I eaten husks, but I've been prodigal in
wasting opportunities.
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