"Him?" the local postmaster of Calivada would say, in reply to your question about the quaint little old man who had just ambled away from the desk with a bundle of letters stuffed in his pocket. "Why, that's Lightnin' Bill Jones! We call him Lightnin' because he ain't. Nature didn't give no speed to Bill. No, sir, far as I know, Lightnin' 'ain't never done a day's work in his life—but there ain't none of us ever thinks any the less of him for that! Bill's got a way with him, an' he kin tell some mighty good yarns. Lightnin's all right!"

And when you met Bill Jones you agreed with the postmaster. You looked into Lightnin's twinkling, shrewdly humorous eyes and you smiled—smiled with him. You thought of the reply he made to a stranger who protested against his indolence.

"Well," Bill said, with that shrewd glance of his, "I ain't keepin' you from makin' a million dollars, am I?"

Old Bill was full of remarks like that, and sometimes those about him were not so sure as to his lack of speed, in spite of his aimless, easy-going habits. You never can tell from the feet alone. Those closest to him were not sure at all; he "had them guessing." There was no doubt that his wife, simple, earnest, hard-working woman that she was, loved him. She mothered him and did not seem to worry much about his shiftless ways. He was her husband, and that was enough for her. What Mrs. Jones thought of her husband's mental acumen would be another question, perhaps, but up to the present she had always consulted Bill's wishes and sought his advice. Their adopted daughter, Millie, a pretty, wholesome, brown-haired girl of nineteen, worshiped Bill. Any one who said a word against "daddy" had Millie to deal with. The third person Bill had guessing was John Marvin, a young man who owned a tract of land and a cabin a few miles down the trail. Marvin had a lot on his mind, and was studying law all alone in the cabin at nights into the bargain, but he liked to have Bill drop in, liked to hear him talk. Bill could tell some pretty tall yarns, but he told them so well you had to swallow them. There was an odd, friendly, understanding bond between the ambitious young fellow and the easy-going, humorous old man. They confided in each other a great deal, and—well, like Mrs. Jones and Millie, Marvin frequently found himself crediting Bill with a semblance of mental speed. But then his mind would picture the ambling, aimless figure of Bill Jones with its shock of disordered gray hair and half-shut eyes, and Marvin would smile to himself and turn his thoughts to something else. But he wondered, nevertheless.

At the present moment, the afternoon of a late summer's day, Bill Jones was doing a little wondering himself, though no one would have suspected it as he ambled lazily up the trail, bound for home. Things were not going well with the Jones family. Mrs. Jones and Millie were worrying, and Bill knew it. Characteristically, he had evaded the issue for several years, content to let each day take care of itself as best it could, but now matters were reaching a crisis and circumstances were forcing Bill to consider it. They had been selling the timber on the land, but that did not help much; and now they were taking summer boarders—when they could get them, for boarders were scarce. Again, this only made more hard work for Millie and Mrs. Jones.

It was of this Bill was thinking as he went along. He had been sent to get the mail and to meet the morning train from San Francisco for the purpose of enticing a few boarders to the Jones establishment if possible. He should have been home hours ago with the mail, and there were some odd jobs awaiting him, but he had dallied in the little local town. This was his usual habit, for, like a good many lonely souls, Bill was also a social one. People liked to buy Bill drinks and cigars in the tavern and listen to his yarns. But to-day Bill was lingering intentionally; he knew that his wife and Millie expected to take him into consultation this afternoon in regard to the critical state of the family affairs. Naturally Bill dreaded such a proceeding, but there was something more than that to it to-day. His old heart, usually full of happy-go-lucky sunshine, was harboring shadows, for he knew that he ought to help and wanted to. But how? As he had turned slowly homeward, Lightnin' hadn't the faintest idea.

Then suddenly, when about a mile from the house, Bill paused in the middle of the trail, chuckled, and then sat down on a fallen tree. He pushed back his battered old hat, drew a bag of tobacco and a Manila paper from his pocket, and rolled himself a cigarette. All signs and manifestations indicated that Bill Jones was overwhelmed by an idea. He sat puffing the cigarette and grinning to himself for a few minutes; then he arose slowly and ambled on; but now the amble was not so aimless. It had a suggestion of the walk of a man with a purpose, and there was a gleam of satisfaction and humorous self-importance in his half-shut eyes.

Nearing the house, he observed his wife sitting on the broad veranda, rocking to and fro, obviously on the watch for him. From force of habit, Bill tried to make a detour with the intent of entering unseen through the back door; but, knowing his ways, Mrs. Jones was too quick for him. She called to him, and, with the air of one who had no intention whatever of entering by the back door, he came up on the porch and dropped into a chair beside her.

"Well, mother," he said, amiably, "you look all tuckered out. Glad to see you restin'."

"Where you been all day?" she asked, ignoring his remark. Her tone was none too tender, but there was a gentle gleam in her motherly, tired eyes as they sought her husband's, sheepishly hiding behind half-closed lids.

"Just takin' a look at town," Bill drawled. "Just takin' a look." He settled himself comfortably in his chair and rolled a cigarette.

"Don't you know there's some new boarders come?"

"Sure," said Bill, easily. "I sent 'em, didn't I? Told 'em you was the best cook in two states, mother. Guess I ought to know."

Millie, an apron over her neat and simple house dress, came out and drew a chair between her foster-parents. She glanced quickly from one to the other, and then her gentle brown eyes came to rest lovingly on old Bill. He returned her smile.

"What a long time you were, daddy!" she said. "I bet you stayed away just because you knew mother and I wanted to talk to you to-day—own up, daddy!"

Bill grinned delightedly, despite his knowledge of the rather grave situation the girl's smiling comment covered. "Well, Millie," he answered, "I'm here now, ain't I? Guess we can have a little talk before them boarders begin to yell for their supper. I kinder wish as you didn't have to cook for 'em, mother—an' Millie waitin' on 'em. 'Tain't fair."

Mrs. Jones's lips twitched; the weight of a hard day was on her.

"It ain't no use puttin' it off, Bill," she said, wearily. "We got to do somethin'. Mr. Townsend was here this afternoon."

"What o' that?" asked Bill.

"Well, he's pretty shrewd, you know, an' he's thinkin' about us, Bill. He seen how much of the timber's gone. He knows we sold another strip o' land last month for next to nothin'—"

"What's that to him?" Bill queried, rolling another cigarette and apparently completely absorbed in the operation.

"He—he's just worried about us, an' it's nice of him, Bill, him knowin' us all these years. He—he thinks as we might move into—into one o' them little cabins down the trail an'—"

"Lem Townsend's all right," Bill cut in, lazily, "but we ain't goin' to move, mother. An' it ain't nobody's business, neither—not even Lem Townsend's. I hope you told him that."

"Why, Bill!" Mrs. Jones exclaimed, sharply. "I told him no such thing! An' I ain't so sure but what I ain't goin' to take his advice!"

Bill looked at her, a hidden smile in his eyes. "It's your property, mother," he said, quietly.

Tears sprang into the woman's eyes and she made an impulsive gesture.

"You mustn't think that way, Bill!" she cried. "I know you deeded the whole place over to me when we were married—and it was all you had! I wasn't thinkin' o' that—'ceptin' as I always think. You must say our place, Bill. It's yours an' mine an' Millie's. We'll stick together. But we got to do somethin'."

Bill glanced slyly at the girl, whose brown head was bowed thoughtfully. "What you think, Millie?" he asked.

"I don't know what to say," she replied, slowly. "I could go back to San Francisco and work as I did last year. But maybe we could pull through this winter—if only we could get boarders. I don't mind the work, and—and I'd rather stay home here."

Bill's eyes suddenly twinkled. "What's the matter?" he chuckled. "John Marvin come back from the city to stay at his cabin?"

Millie blushed. "Daddy!" she pouted.

Mrs. Jones did not seem any too pleased at her husband's remark. "John Marvin 'ain't got nothin' to do with it!" she exclaimed. "I don't see what he comes foolin' around here for, anyway—Millie 'ain't got him on her mind!"

"I should say not!" Millie echoed, though it occurred to Bill that the softness of her brown eyes belied the petulant toss of her head. "Perhaps, after all, it would be best for me to go back to Mr. Thomas's office!"

Bill turned his half-shut eyes on her quickly, but Millie did not note the expression of genuine concern in them. He sat lost in thought. The last winter had been the most difficult of all for them. Millie, feeling that it was time for her being some help, had studied typewriting and stenography and had obtained a position in the office of Raymond Thomas, a San Francisco lawyer. Presumably on a vacation, Thomas had chanced to spend a week at the Jones place the previous summer. Millie had told him of her design to help the family, and Thomas had suggested that she take the position open in his office.

But that had been a dreary and lonely winter for Bill and his wife. Millie's pretty face and youthful ways had been missed sorely; the girl had come to be all in all to the old couple, and they could not bear to see her go away again for another long winter.

Then, too, Bill had his own reasons for feeling grave and down in the mouth when Millie suggested her returning to work in the office of Raymond Thomas. Bill Jones was not one to analyze, or to voice or explain his thoughts—even to himself—unless he took a notion to, or considered that the right moment had arrived; it was all too much trouble, anyway. Certain thoughts were running through his mind now, however; running a little at random, to be sure, but they were there. His young friend, John Marvin, had worked in Thomas's office for a time—was working there when Millie entered the office. Indeed, that was how Marvin had met Millie and found, to his delight, that they were neighbors up in Nevada—that she was the pretty daughter his friend Bill Jones was always mentioning.

But Bill was thinking now especially of the fact that Marvin had left Raymond Thomas's office suddenly, and had told Bill precisely why he had left.

"Don't you think it would be best for me to go back, daddy?" Millie questioned, interrupting his random musings. "Maybe mother could manage here, with one or two boarders and the money I shall send her. And there will be your army pension. Mr. Thomas is coming to pay us a visit to-morrow, you know, and I'll ask him at once for my old position. I know it will be all right, for he's always been perfectly splendid! He told me the position would always be open to me. You have no idea how kind and considerate he is, daddy! Then maybe next summer—"

"Next summer we're all goin' to be rich!" said her odd foster-father, unexpectedly. "Yes, sir, meanin' you an' mother, Millie girl, next summer we're goin' to be awful rich. Leastways, you an' mother is. Bein' rich wouldn't mean nothin' to me—I'm above it!"

"Why, daddy!" Millie exclaimed, staring at him. "How—What do you mean, daddy?"

Slumped away down in his chair, Bill's eyes were now all but closed tight and he was grinning.

"Nothin' particular," he answered, softly. "'Cept that maybe Bill Jones ain't called Lightnin' for nothin'."

"Bill," said his wife, "this ain't no time for to be smart! If you have anything to say, I wish to goodness you'd say it!"

Bill half opened his eyes and glanced at her. "Millie ain't goin' back to that tailor-made lawyer's office," he said.

"Daddy, please!" said Millie, flushing.

"You mustn't make fun of Mr. Thomas when—"

"All right, Millie," he stopped her, resting his thin hand on her brown hair for an instant. "I wouldn't say nothin' as would hurt you. But you won't have to go back, my dear—not unless you really want to leave us. I got an idea, mother—that's why I was late gettin' home. Ideas take time, 'specially when they're good ones! I got a good one what'll fix this whole business!"

Bill stuck his thumbs in his faded old shirt comically. Even slumped down in his chair as he was, the suggestion of a harmless swagger was in his manner—the easy swagger of one who, hitherto unconsidered, has astonished the skeptics by giving birth to an idea and solving a problem. There was something about Bill that suppressed the gentle but none the less amused smile that was dimpling Millie's cheeks.

"Out with it, daddy!" she demanded, restraining a desire to pull his ear.

"If Lem Townsend is so anxious to help us," he stated, "he can arrange all the details for you, mother. I 'ain't got time for details—that's what I told Grant once, when we was havin' supper before Petersburg. Got enough to do with the idea. Lem can put the ads. in them Reno papers, an' hire the maids for you, an' things like that." Then Bill suddenly stopped, hugely enjoying the mystification of his two listeners.

His wife sat up. "Bill Jones," she said, "you been drinking again down to town, that's what I think!"

"Go on, daddy!" Millie encouraged, putting her hand on his arm. "I feel that you've thought of something! Tell us!"

Ignoring his wife's accusation, Bill gave Millie a grateful glance and resumed, in his slow drawl:

"I got an idea—sure enough, mother an' Millie! It didn't hit me until I was half-way home to-day, but I got it lookin' at the mornin' train what goes on through to Reno. I've looked at a pile o' trains in my time, but I never got no idea from 'em before. Look here, don't the state line run plumb through the middle o' this house, so's half of it is in California an' the other half in Nevada? Well, what's the matter with makin' this house a hotel temporary for busted hearts what takes six months to cure? Lots o' them rich folks from the East who goes on down to Reno to git divorced would like to live on the lake, but they can't because they got to live in Nevada for six months. They can live on one side o' this house an' be in Nevada. An' at the same time they gits all the good o' livin' in California! They'd be tickled to death an' they'd be comin' in shoals all year, winter an' summer. An' what they pays ain't nothin' to them—the Reno hotels is so rich off them they don't want to take in no one what 'ain't a busted heart! You better start right away gettin' ready, mother!"

Mrs. Jones and Millie gasped. Bill, however, having spoken at considerable length for him, merely reached for his eternal bag of tobacco and paper and idly rolled himself a cigarette.

Millie clapped her hands. "Why, mother!" she cried, "daddy's right—it is an idea! And so simple!"

"All big things is simple," Bill remarked, with the air of one who ought to know.

Mrs. Jones stared from her husband to Millie. "Oh, Bill," she said, finally, "I really think we can do it! And now I'll tell you somethin'. I—I was goin' to suggest this very thing some time ago, but—but I thought you wouldn't approve of it on account o' Millie. Lem Townsend put the notion in my head when he was talkin' about our sellin' the timber."

Bill looked up. "Lem thought of it, eh? Didn't think Lem had that much sense. Anyways, I bet I thought of it first—I must 'a' been thinkin' of it for a long time without knowin' it. Why shouldn't I approve—on account o' Millie, mother?"

"I—I don't know," said his wife, uncertainly. "I hear some of them divorcers is—is—"

"Shucks, mother," Bill stopped her. "They're human beings, ain't they? An' them as ain't we needn't take. But they're all right. I seen a lot o' them on the trains. Right smart lookers, most o' them! They can't help it if their hearts gets busted, can they? Human beings is human beings. Besides, we gotter look at it from a business point o' view—as Lincoln said to me about the Civil War. I was a business man once an'—"

Millie laughed, and Bill, remembering that he was in the bosom of his family and that there were certain things he couldn't "get away with" there, subsided.

Evidently Mrs. Jones had been thinking hard during the past few minutes, and now she spoke. "We'll do it, Millie!" she said. "Some o' them Reno hotels got started overnight, just like this, an' we can do the same. It'll be kinder queer at first, turning our home into a hotel, but maybe we can soon make enough to—to make it a home again. Shall we try it, Millie?"

"Of course!" Millie exclaimed. "I think it will be great fun! You're awful clever, daddy, to think of it!"

Bill, who had rolled and lighted another cigarette, arose and stuck his hands carelessly in the pockets of his worn, baggy old trousers. "'Tain't nothin'," he remarked, swaying on his heels and toes. "Nothin' at all! I think o' lots o' things like that, but I don't tell 'em—too busy! Well, mother, as Lem Townsend's comin' over to-night, you better have him fix them details. I got to go an' think some more about the idea!"

He moved away with elaborate unconcern and started to amble down the veranda steps. His wife suddenly remembered several odd jobs he should be attending to, but she did not stop him. Her mind was full of plans—and one is naturally timid about asking a Man with a Big Idea to perform menial tasks.