OH, SHOOT! 



yacht, blown out all her lights, and conversed 

 in whispers. Humor was all right in its place, 

 but if we thought that was funny, we were 

 crazy. Meanwhile, for the love of Heaven, 

 wouldn't somebody suggest a bite to eat? 



"Better get some sleep," Salisbury warned 

 the rest of us, "for that winged Mexican will 

 be back at daylight with his panting burros, 

 and it's a long hike up to the sheep country." 



That Mexican bore the name of Macario, 

 which we fatuously believed to be the Spanish 

 equivalent of Mercury, but there was a catch 

 in it somewhere. Through a long forenoon we 

 fried ourselves on a hot deck and waited for 

 him. During the cool of the previous evening 

 the mountains back of the bay had looked 

 invitingly near and not too high, but in the 

 pitiless heat of that glaring forenoon they 

 retreated and reared themselves skyward to 

 such an extent that Salisbury conceived a 

 brilliant idea. Why not split the party, leave 

 some here to try for sheep, while the others 

 ran up the coast seventy-five miles to another 

 bay where the chart indicated that the hills 

 had been stunted in their early years? Up 

 there were both sheep and antelope in abun- 

 dance. Salisbury was sure of it. 



250 



