He lay on his back. So heavy was his sleep that thestamp of hoofs and cries of the drivers from the bridgethat crossed the creek did not rouse him. Wagon afterwagon， loaded high with grapes， passed the bridge on theway up the valley to the winery， and the coming of eachwagon was like an explosion of sound and commotion inthe lazy quiet of the afternoon.
But the man was undisturbed. His head had slippedfrom the folded newspaper， and the straggling unkempthair was matted with the foxtails and burrs of the drygrass on which it lay. He was not a pretty sight. His mouthwas open， disclosing a gap in the upper row where severalteeth at some time had been knocked out. He breathedstertorously， at times grunting and moaning with the painof his sleep. Also， he was very restless， tossing his armsabout， making jerky， half-convulsive movements， and attimes rolling his head from side to side in the burrs. Thisrestlessness seemed occasioned partly by some internaldiscomfort， and partly by the sun that streamed downon his face and by the flies that buzzed and lighted andcrawled upon the nose and cheeks and eyelids. Therewas no other place for them to crawl， for the rest of theface was covered with matted beard， slightly grizzled， butgreatly dirt-stained and weather-discoloured.
The cheek-bones were blotched with the blood
congested by the debauch that was evidently being sleptoff. This， too， accounted for the persistence with whichthe flies clustered around the mouth， lured by the alcoholladenexhalations. He was a powerfully built man， thicknecked，broad-shouldered， with sinewy wrists and toildistortedhands. Yet the distortion was not due to recenttoil， nor were the callouses other than ancient that showedunder the dirt of the one palm upturned. From time totime this hand clenched tightly and spasmodically into afist， large， heavy-boned and wicked-looking.
The man lay in the dry grass of a tiny glade that randown to the tree-fringed bank of the stream. On eitherside of the glade was a fence， of the old stake-and-ridertype， though little of it was to be seen， so thickly wasit overgrown by wild blackberry bushes， scrubby oaksand young madrono trees. In the rear， a gate through alow paling fence led to a snug， squat bungalow， built inthe California Spanish style and seeming to have beencompounded directly from the landscape of which it wasso justly a part. Neat and trim and modestly sweet wasthe bungalow， redolent of comfort and repose， tellingwith quiet certitude of some one that knew， and that hadsought and found.
Through the gate and into the glade came as dainty alittle maiden as ever stepped out of an illustration madeespecially to show how dainty little maidens may be. Eightyears she might have been， and， possibly， a trifle more，or less. Her little waist and little black-stockinged calvesshowed how delicately fragile she was； but the fragility wasof mould only. There was no hint of anaemia in the clear，healthy complexion nor in the quick， tripping step. Shewas a little， delicious blond， with hair spun of gossamergold and wide blue eyes that were but slightly veiled bythe long lashes. Her expression was of sweetness andhappiness； it belonged by right to any face that shelteredin the bungalow.
She carried a child’s parasol， which she was careful notto tear against the scrubby branches and bramble bushesas she sought for wild poppies along the edge of the fence.
They were late poppies， a third generation， which hadbeen unable to resist the call of the warm October sun.
Having gathered along one fence， she turned to cross tothe opposite fence. Midway in the glade she came uponthe tramp. Her startle was merely a startle. There was nofear in it. She stood and looked long and curiously at theforbidding spectacle， and was about to turn back when thesleeper moved restlessly and rolled his hand among theburrs. She noted the sun on his face， and the buzzing flies；her face grew solicitous， and for a moment she debated withherself. Then she tiptoed to his side， interposed the parasolbetween him and the sun， and brushed away the flies. Aftera time， for greater ease， she sat down beside him.
An hour passed， during which she occasionally shiftedthe parasol from one tired hand to the other. At first thesleeper had been restless， but， shielded from the flies andthe sun， his breathing became gentler and his movementsceased. Several times， however， he really frightened her.
The first was the worst， coming abruptly and withoutwarning. “Christ！ How deep！ How deep！” the manmurmured from some profound of dream. The parasolwas agitated； but the little girl controlled herself andcontinued her self-appointed ministrations.
Another time it was a gritting of teeth， as of someintolerable agony. So terribly did the teeth crunch andgrind together that it seemed they must crash intofragments. A little later he suddenly stiffened out. Thehands clenched and the face set with the savage resolutionof the dream. The eyelids trembled from the shock of thefantasy， seemed about to open， but did not. Instead， thelips muttered：
“No； by God， no. And once more no. I won’t peach.”
The lips paused， then went on. “You might as well tie meup， warden， and cut me to pieces. That’s all you can getouta me—blood. That’s all any of you-uns has ever gotouta me in this hole.”
After this outburst the man slept gently on， while thelittle girl still held the parasol aloft and looked down witha great wonder at the frowsy， unkempt creature， trying toreconcile it with the little part of life that she knew. Toher ears came the cries of men， the stamp of hoofs on thebridge， and the creak and groan of wagons heavy-laden.
