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THAT HAUNTED HERBERT
All Hugh Herbert wanted was quiet and fresh air when he bought a raneh. And then he found that the place was haunted
By MAR GO KEXT
H "You think the smoked salmon is good?" Hugh Herbert inquired. "It's fresh — it's fresh. It should be good — it should be good." The waitress was committing grand larceny right under Hugh Herbert's nose, taking unto herself his trade-mark, and double-talking her recommendation of a luncheon goodie.
"But I don't like colcf fish. Heat 'em up for me, will you?"
The waitress was obliging, but the culinary soul of the chef rebelled. The girl came back bearing disquieting tidings.
"The chef says, Mr. Herbert, that it'll spoil the fish to heat them," she retorted.
"Well, I don't like cold fish; never could eat cold fish. Tell the chef to spoil a couple of pieces for me. Woo — Woo!"
With the luncheon problem well out of the way, we turned oui attention to the fascinating tale of the cows who found the gold-mine.
Every man has a secret yearning. Hugh had suppressed his successfully for years, but eventually that suppressed desire could no longer be held in check. Visions of the simple life of a farmer made his nights restless and his days incomplete.
If the glamour gals and boys could go in for raising race-horses, in dungarees by Adrian and Travis Banton, there was nothing to stop him. Of course, he might not make the fashion gazettes in his overalls, but he would certainly get a lot of fresh air.
A cow or two, a flock of chickens, and maybe half a dozen orange trees, from which he could snatch his breakfast every morning, would
be just the sort of thing to make a man feel at peace with the world. And so Hugh went ranch hunting. Real-estate agents heard about it, and his life became so complicated that he had to sneak home after dark, and sneak into the studio for his daily laugh chores in a Mickey Mouse disguise.
The great discovery was made on a placid morning when the only clouds were on the face of the gentleman who was temporarily squatting on the acreage. It was a perfect spot; the ground was gently rolling and a mosaic of mountains in the distance made a breath-taking background. The air was uncontaminated by fumes from motor exhaust pipes.
"You lookin' at this place 'spectin' to buy it?" the temporary tenant inquired. " 'Tain't what it looks like," he added, with an ingratiating air. "I wouldn't want honest folks to get stuck with it. Maybe I better let you drink the water from the spring in the south pasture. It's bad. My dog took a drink of it and I ain't seen him since."
Hugh obligingly walked down to the spring, but he didn't have to drink it. He could smell it ten feet away. There was undoubtedly something the matter with it.
However, except for the water, the place was ideal. So Hugh signed on the dotted line and became a rancher, with a spot of his own, forever entitled to pull weeds and worry about too much rain and not enough rain.
He and Mrs. Herbert built a small house and moved in. They then acquired a couple of cows, a horse and sundry chickens, ducks and geese. There was no doubt about it — this was the life, even though they had to haul water in. After all, they couldn't ask self-respecting cows and their little feathered [Continued on page 44]
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