The master rose, stamping resoundingly with the heels of his cowboy boots, walked toward the fireplace, and threw in a large log. Then he returned and continued:

"The Navajos are actually a remarkable people. They are faultlessly honest. There are never any crimes among them. It seems to me that they don't even know what a crime is. During the last twenty years I have learned to respect them as I have never respected any white man, and I am very sorry for them. Their children are dying at a great rate. You see, they don't want any help from the whites. They will not submit to white influence and will not allow white men in their wigwams.

I have friendly relations with the Navajos, but even after twenty years I am a stranger to them. Yet they are a remarkable people. It is hard to imagine how honest they are."

The old cowboy told us a story about a certain Indian of the Navajo tribe who suddenly decided to take up trade.

"Somehow the Indian managed to acquire an unusual amount of capital, two hundred dollars, either because he sold some cattle or found a little oil on his property; but anyhow, he got hold of a little money. So he decided to go into business. He went from the desert to the nearest town, bought two hundred dollars' worth of various merchandise, and brought it to his own native reservation. Just imagine an Indian engaged in commerce! It was the first occurrence of that kind in the entire history of the Navajo tribe. His trade went quite well. But I noticed that my Indian friend was carrying on his business in a rather peculiar way. I was so surprised that at first I thought he had lost his mind. You see, he was selling his merchandise for exactly the same price he had paid for it himself. So I began to explain to him that he can't carry on trade that way, that he would go bankrupt, that merchandise must be sold for more than the price paid for it.

"'Well, what do you mean by a higher price?' the Indian asked me.

"Very simple,' I replied. 'Let's say you bought a thing for a dollar; so you must sell it for a dollar-twenty.'

"' How can I sell it for a dollar-twenty when it cost me only a dollar ?' this merchant asked me.

"' But that is exactly what trade means,' I said. 'You buy cheaper and you sell for more.'

"But at this point my Indian became frightfully angry.

"' That's fraud!' he said. ' To buy for a dollar and to sell for a dollar-twenty ! You're advising me to deceive people.'

"Then I said to him:

"'That's not fraud. You simply must earn money, must make a profit; don't you understand? Make a profit!'

"But something strange happened to my Indian friend. He suddenly stopped understanding the most ordinary things.

"'What do you mean, make a profit?' he asked.

"'Well,' I said, 'justify your expenses.'

"I didn't have any expenses.'

"'But still, you went to the city; you bought; you brought it here; you worked.'

"' What kind of work is that?' the Indian told me. 'To buy, to bring it here—that's not work. No, you're giving me bad advice.'

"It was simply impossible to convince him. No matter how hard I tried, nothing came of it. He was as stubborn as a bull, and he kept repeating one and the same thing: ' You're advising me to do something dishonest.' I tell him, this is trade; and he tells me that in that case trade is a dishonest thing. And just imagine: he continued to trade that way, just as he began, though eventually he gave up this occupation. Thus, the only commercial enterprise with Indian capital in a Navajo tribe had to close up."

We remembered that Indian a month later when we were sitting in the Senate of the United States of America during the investigation of John Pierpont Morgan, Jr., by a Senate Committee.

The Committee was concerned with the question of Morgan's role in so far as it helped to drag America into the World War.

"Tell me," asked Senator Nye, "didn't you know that by exporting money into Europe you were supporting war ?"

"Yes, I knew it."

"Why did you do it, then?"

"What do you mean, why?" The huge old man was surprised, rising a little in his chair. " But that is business! Trade! They bought money and I sold it."

The wife called our host into the dining-room to help her set the table. Soon they called us too.

After we had finished our dinner, a tall man in boots, in a bright red shirt, held in by a cartridge belt, entered the room. His hair was reddish, with considerable grey in it. He wore horn-rimmed spectacles and a dazzling smile. He was accompanied by a woman. They greeted our host and sat down at the neighbouring table. The man in the red shirt heard us speaking among ourselves in some foreign tongue and said to the woman who had come there with him:

"Well, wife, these must be Frenchmen." Now you'll have a chance to talk French."

"I don't know French," replied his wife.

"What do you mean, you don't know it? Well, what do you know about that! We have been married for fifteen years and all that time every day you told me that you were born two hours' ride from Paris."

"So I was born two hours' ride from Paris."

"Well, why don't you talk French with these people?"

"But I tell you I don't know the French language. I was born in London, and London is actually two hours' ride from Paris if you go by airplane."

The man in the red shirt laughed noisily. It was evident that this family joke was repeated every time the couple met foreigners.

The ground was beautifully prepared for Mr. Adams to act, and he did not hesitate.

"I see, sir, that you are a cheerful person," said Mr. Adams, taking a polite little step forward.

"Sure!" exclaimed the man in the red shirt.

And he on his part took a step in the direction of Mr. Adams.

In the eyes of both men gleamed such an unquenchable and insane desire to talk that it was clear to us that they were bound to meet in the desert. They could not fail to meet. Only love at first sight flares up with such natural alacrity.

"How do you do, sir?" said Mr. Adams, taking one more step forward.

"How do you do?" said the man in the red shirt, and he also took an additional step. "Are you from New York?" he asked.

"Surely!" piped Mr. Adams. "And you live here?"

"Surely!" roared the stranger.

A second later they were already slapping each other on the shoulder with terrible gusto—though actually little Mr. Adams slapped his new friend across the waist, while his tall friend was whacking Mr. Adams almost on the back of his head.

Mr. Adams had an extraordinary nose for new acquaintances. The man in the red shirt proved to be one of the most interesting people we met in America.

"He is the only white man," our cowboy host said about him, "whom the Indians have accepted as one of their own. He lives with the Indians, but sometimes he comes to visit me."

The biography of this man is a real romance.

After graduating from college he became a missionary. Being a man with a purpose in life, he married and went to the post of his new field of duty—into the desert, to the Navajo Indians, in order to convert them to Christianity. However, it soon became evident to the fledgling missionary that the Indians did not want Christianity. All his efforts met the stubborn resistance of the Indians, who not only did not wish to accept the new faith, but more than that, refused to have anything at all to do with white people. Despite all rebuffs, he learned to like the Indians. A year later he went back to his superiors and declared that he refused to convert Indians to Christianity.