'undetached' (blame haberdashery for the word); his tie was a narrow, funereal strip, tied in the same knot as were his shoe-strings. His gray hair was a trifle too long behind, but he kept it smooth and orderly. His face was clean-shaven, like the old statesmen's. Most people thought it a stern face, but when its official expression was off, a few had seen altogether a different countenance. Especially tender and gentle it had appeared to those who were about him during the last illness of his only child.
The Commissioner had been a widower for years, and his life, outside his official duties, had been so devoted to little Georgia that people spoke of it as a touching and admirable thing. He was a reserved man, and dignified almost to austerity, but the child had come below it all and rested upon his very heart, so that she scarcely missed the mother's love that had been taken away. There was a wonderful companionship between them, for she had many of his own ways, being thoughtful and serious beyond her years.
One day, while she was lying with the fever burning brightly in her checks, she said suddenly:
'Papa, I wish I could do something good for a whole lot of children!'
'What would you like to do, dear?' asked the Com- Missioner. 'Give them a party?'
'Oh, I don't mean those kind. I mean poor children who haven't homes, and aren't loved and cared for as I am. I tell you what, papa!'
'What, my own child?'
'If I shouldn't get well, I'll leave them you -- not give you, but just lend you, for you must come to mamma and me when you die too. If you can find time, wouldn't you do something to help them, if I ask you, papa?'
'Hush, hush dear, dear child,' said the Commissioner, holding her hot little hand against his cheek; 'you'll get well real soon, and you and I will see what we can do for them together.'
But in whatsoever paths of benevolence, thus vaguely premeditated, the Commissioner might tread, he was not to have the company of his beloved. That night the little frail body grew suddenly too tired to struggle further, and Georgia's exit was made from the great stage when she had scarcely begun to speak her little piece before the footlights. But there must be a stage manager who understands. She had given the cue to the one who was to speak after her.
A week after she was laid away, the Commissioner reappeared at the office, a little more courteous, a little paler and sterner, with the black frock-coat hanging a little more loosely from his tall figure.
His desk was piled with work that had accumulated during the four heartbreaking weeks of his absence. His chief clerk had done what he could, but there were ques- tions of law, of fine judicial decisions to be made concern- ing the issue of patents, the marketing and leasing of school lands, the classification into grazing, agricultural, watered, and timbered, of new tracts to be opened to settlers.
The Commissioner went to work silently and ob- stinately, putting back his grief as far as possible, forcing his mind to attack the complicated and important busi- ness of his office. On the second day after his return he called the porter, pointed to a leather-covered chair that stood near his own, and ordered it removed to a lumber- room at the top of the building. In that chair Georgia would always sit when she came to the office for him of afternoons.
As time passed, the Commissioner seemed to grow more silent, solitary, and reserved. A new phase of mind developed in him. He could not endure the presence of a child. Often when a clattering youngster belonging to one of the clerks would come chattering into the big business-room adjoining his little apartment, the Com- missioner would steal softly and close the door. He would always cross the street to avoid meeting the school- children when they came dancing along in happy groups upon the sidewalk, and his firm mouth would close into a mere line.
It was nearly three months after the rains had washed the last dead flower-petals from the mound above little Georgia when the 'land-shark' firm of Hamlin and Avery filed papers upon what they considered the 'fattest' vacancy of the year.
It should not be supposed that all who were termed 'land-sharks' deserved the name. Many of them were reputable men of good business character. Some of them could walk into the most august councils of the State and say: 'Gentlemen, we would like to have this, and that, and matters go thus.' But, next to a three years' drought and the boll-worm, the Actual Settler hated the Land-shark. The land-shark haunted the Land Office, where all the land records were kept, and hunted 'vacancies' -- that is, tracts of unappro- priated public domain, generally invisible upon the official maps, but actually existing 'upon the ground.' The law entitled any one possessing certain State scrip to file by virtue of same upon any land not previously legally appropriated. Most of the scrip was now in the hands of the land-sharks. Thus, at the cost of a few hundred dollars, they often secured lands worth as many thousands. Naturally, the search for 'vacancies' was lively.
But often -- very often -- the land they thus secured, though legally 'unappropriated,' would be occupied by happy and contented settlers, who had laboured for years to build up their homes, only to discover that their titles were worthless, and to receive peremptory notice to quit. Thus came about the bitter and not unjustifiable hatred felt by the toiling settlers toward the shrewd and seldom merciful speculators who so often turned them forth destitute and homeless from their fruitless labours. The history of the state teems with their antagonism. Mr. Land-shark seldom showed his face on 'locations' from which he should have to eject the unfortunate victims of a monstrously tangled land system, but let his emis- saxies do the work. There was lead in every cabin, moulded into balls for him; many of his brothers had enriched the grass with their blood. The fault of it all lay far back.
When the state was young, she felt the need of attract- ing newcomers, and of rewarding those pioneers already within her borders. Year after year she issued land scrip -- Headrights, Bounties, Veteran Donations, Confeder- ates; and to railroads, irrigation companies, colonies, and tillers of the soil galore. All required of the grantee was that he or it should have the scrip properly surveyed upon the public domain by the county or district surveyor, and the land thus appropriated became the property of him or it, or his or its heirs and assigns, forever.
In those days -- and here is where the trouble began - the state's domain was practically inexhaustible, and the old surveyors, with princely -- yea, even Western American -- liberality, gave good measure and over- flowing. Often the jovial man of metes and bounds would dispense altogether with the tripod and chain. Mounted on a pony that could cover something near a 'vara' at a step, with a pocket compass to direct his course, he would trot out a survey by counting the beat of his pony's hoofs, mark his corners, and write out his field notes with the complacency produced by an act of duty well performed. Sometimes -- and who could blame the surveyor? -- when the pony was 'feeling his oats,' he might step a little higher and farther, and in that case the beneficiary of the scrip might get a thousand or two more acres in his survey than the scrip called for. But look at the boundless leagues the state had to spare! However, no one ever had to complain of the pony under- stepping. Nearly every old survey in the state con- tained an excess of land.
In later years, when the state became more populous, and land values increased, this careless work entailed incalculable trouble, endless litigation, a period of riotous land-grabbing, and no little bloodshed. The land-
