But he turned down the side street to a quiet spot and laid his suddenly burning face against the cool iron of a lamp-post, and said dully: 

“God!  I wish I could die.”

THE BUYER FROM CACTUS CITY

It is well that hay fever and colds do not obtain in the healthful vicinity of Cactus City, Texas, for the dry goods emporium of Navarro & Platt, situated there, is not to be sneezed at.

Twenty thousand people in Cactus City scatter their silver coin with liberal hands for the things that their hearts desire.  The bulk of this semiprecious metal goes to Navarro & Platt.  Their huge brick building covers enough ground to graze a dozen head of sheep.  You can buy of them a rattlesnake-skin necktie, an automobile or an eighty-five dollar, latest style, ladies’ tan coat in twenty different shades.  Navarro & Platt first introduced pennies west of the Colorado River.  They had been ranchmen with business heads, who saw that the world did not necessarily have to cease its revolutions after free grass went out.

Every Spring, Navarro, senior partner, fifty-five, half Spanish, cosmopolitan, able, polished, had “gone on” to New York to buy goods.  This year he shied at taking up the long trail.  He was undoubtedly growing older; and he looked at his watch several times a day before the hour came for his siesta.

“John,” he said, to his junior partner, “you shall go on this year to buy the goods.”

Platt looked tired.

“I’m told,” said he, “that New York is a plumb dead town; but I’ll go.  I can take a whirl in San Antone for a few days on my way and have some fun.”

Two weeks later a man in a Texas full dress suit—­black frock coat, broad-brimmed soft white hat, and lay-down collar 3-4 inch high, with black, wrought iron necktie—­entered the wholesale cloak and suit establishment of Zizzbaum & Son, on lower Broadway.

Old Zizzbaum had the eye of an osprey, the memory of an elephant and a mind that unfolded from him in three movements like the puzzle of the carpenter’s rule.  He rolled to the front like a brunette polar bear, and shook Platt’s hand.

“And how is the good Mr. Navarro in Texas?” he said.  “The trip was too long for him this year, so?  We welcome Mr. Platt instead.”

“A bull’s eye,” said Platt, “and I’d give forty acres of unirrigated Pecos County land to know how you did it.”

“I knew,” grinned Zizzbaum, “just as I know that the rainfall in El Paso for the year was 28.5 inches, or an increase of 15 inches, and that therefore Navarro & Platt will buy a $15,000 stock of suits this spring instead of $10,000, as in a dry year.  But that will be to-morrow.  There is first a cigar in my private office that will remove from your mouth the taste of the ones you smuggle across the Rio Grande and like—­because they are smuggled.”

It was late in the afternoon and business for the day had ended, Zizzbaum left Platt with a half-smoked cigar, and came out of the private office to Son, who was arranging his diamond scarfpin before a mirror, ready to leave.