Cal sat at a new desk. He was working with tissue paper and a bolt of red ribbon, and as Aron came in he hastily covered something on his desk with a large blotter.

Aron smiled. “Presents?”

“Yes,” said Cal and left it at that.

“Can I talk to you?”

“Sure! Come on in. Talk low or Father will come in. He hates to miss a moment.”

Aron sat down on the bed. He was silent so long that Cal asked, “What’s the matter—you got trouble?”

“No, not trouble. I just wanted to talk to you. Cal, I don’t want to go on at college.”

Cal’s head jerked around. “You don’t? Why not?”

“I just don’t like it.”

“You haven’t told Father, have you? He’ll be disappointed. It’s bad enough that I don’t want to go. What do you want to do?”

“I thought I’d like to take over the ranch.”

“How about Abra?”

“She told me a long time ago that’s what she’d like.”

Cal studied him. “The ranch has got a lease to run.”

“Well, I was just thinking about it.”

Cal said, “There’s no money in farming.”

“I don’t want much money. Just to get along.”

“That’s not good enough for me,” said Cal. “I want a lot of money and I’m going to get it too.”

“How?”

Cal felt older and surer than his brother. He felt protective toward him. “If you’ll go on at college, why, I’ll get started and lay in a foundation. Then when you finish we can be partners. I’ll have one kind of thing and you’ll have another. That might be pretty good.”

“I don’t want to go back. Why do I have to go back?”

“Because Father wants you to.”

“That won’t make me go.”

Cal stared fiercely at his brother, at the pale hair and the wide-set eyes, and suddenly he knew why his father loved Aron, knew it beyond doubt. “Sleep on it,” he said quickly. “It would be better if you finish out the term at least. Don’t do anything now.”

Aron got up and moved toward the door. “Who’s the present for?” he asked.

“It’s for Father. You’ll see it tomorrow—after dinner.”

“It’s not Christmas.”

“No,” said Cal, “it’s better than Christmas.”

When Aron had gone back to his room Cal uncovered his present. He counted the fifteen new bills once more, and they were so crisp they made a sharp, cracking sound. The Monterey County Bank had to send to San Francisco to get them, and only did so when the reason for them was told. It was a matter of shock and disbelief to the bank that a seventeen-year-old boy should, first, own them, and, second, carry them about. Bankers do not like money to be lightly handled even if the handling is sentimental. It had taken Will Hamilton’s word to make the bank believe that the money belonged to Cal, that it was honestly come by, and that he could do what he wanted to with it.

Cal wrapped the bills in tissue and tied it with red ribbon finished in a blob that was faintly recognizable as a bow. The package might have been a handkerchief. He concealed it under the shirts in his bureau and went to bed. But he could not sleep. He was excited and at the same time shy. He wished the day was over and the gift given. He went over what he planned to say.

“This is for you.”

“What is it?”

“A present.”

From then on he didn’t know what would happen. He tossed and rolled in bed, and at dawn he got up and dressed and crept out of the house.

On Main Street he saw Old Martin sweeping the street with a stable broom. The city council was discussing the purchase of a mechanical sweeper. Old Martin hoped he would get to drive it, but he was cynical about it. Young men got the cream of everything. Bacigalupi’s garbage wagon went by, and Martin looked after it spitefully. There was a good business. Those wops were getting rich.

Main Street was empty except for a few dogs sniffing at closed entrances and the sleepy activity around the San Francisco Chop House. Pet Bulene’s new taxi was parked in front, for Pet had been alerted the night before to take the Williams girls to the morning train for San Francisco.

Old Martin called to Cal, “Got a cigarette, young fella?”

Cal stopped and took out his cardboard box of Murads.

“Oh, fancy ones!” Martin said. “I ain’t got a match either.”

Cal lighted the cigarette for him, careful not to set fire to the grizzle around Martin’s mouth.

Martin leaned on the handle of his brush and puffed disconsolately. “Young fellas gets the cream,” he said. “They won’t let me drive it.”

“What?” Cal asked.

“Why, the new sweeper. Ain’t you heard? Where you been, boy?” It was incredible to him that any reasonably informed human did not know about the sweeper. He forgot Cal. Maybe the Bacigalupis would give him a job. They were coining money. Three wagons and a new truck.

Cal turned down Alisal Street, went into the post office, and looked in the glass window of box 632. It was empty. He wandered back home and found Lee up and stuffing a very large turkey.

“Up all night?” Lee asked.

“No. I just went for a walk.”

“Nervous?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t blame you. I would be too. It’s hard to give people things—I guess it’s harder to be given things, though. Seems silly, doesn’t it? Want some coffee?”