CHAPTER XXIV
THE MOURNING PICKETS
I had a book to write that winter, and my wife's health to
think about. We had got as far from the newspapers as we
knew how—a little cottage in one of the remotest parts of
the Bermuda Islands, with sand-dunes and coral-crags all
about us, and a sweep of the Southern ocean in front. There
we lived for several months, and thought we were safe. I
never went anywhere, except to play tennis—so surely I ought
to have been safe! But I wasn't.
All at once my clipping-bureau began sending me articles from newspapers all over the United States. I was starting a ranch for the training of incorrigible boys in Nevada! First, I was in Chicago for an assortment of boys; I wanted the very wildest and most blood-thirsty that could be found; I had picked out several young criminals who had been given up by reformatories. Then, a little later, I was out in Nevada, starting this "Last Chance Ranch," with a score or two of boys. And then one of the boys ran away; he complained that I fed him on vegetarian food, and he couldn't stand it. As it happened, I had not been a vegetarian for a long time; also, as it happened, I was in Bermuda instead of Nevada; but what did that matter to the newspapers? Before long I found myself riding on horseback across the desert, chasing this runaway boy, John Fargo. I had been riding for three days and had nothing in my saddle-bags but peanuts and canned beans.
And there I was left. To this day I don't know what happened to me; whether I caught "John Fargo," or what become of my "Last Chance Ranch." Is there a phantom Upton Sinclair, still chasing "John Fargo" over the Nevada desert, and living on peanuts and canned beans?
It may have been, of course, that there was some one impersonating me. A friend of mine, a school-teacher, told me the other day that one of her pupils had assured her quite solemnly that he knew me well; I was a cripple, and went about in a wheel-chair. Also, I was told by a waiter in a
