Little Lady of the Big House

Little Lady of the Big House

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Title: The Little Lady of the Big House
Author: Jack London
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[Illustration: ]

THE LITTLE LADY OF THE BIG HOUSE
BY
JACK LONDON

Author of "The Valley of the Moon," "The Star Rover," "The Sea
Wolf," Etc.
CHAPTER I

He awoke in the dark. His awakening was simple, easy, without
movement save for the eyes that opened and made him aware of
darkness. Unlike most, who must feel and grope and listen to, and
contact with, the world about them, he knew himself on the moment of

awakening, instantly identifying himself in time and place and
personality. After the lapsed hours of sleep he took up, without effort,
the interrupted tale of his days. He knew himself to be Dick Forrest, the
master of broad acres, who had fallen asleep hours before after
drowsily putting a match between the pages of "Road Town" and
pressing off the electric reading lamp.
Near at hand there was the ripple and gurgle of some sleepy fountain.
From far off, so faint and far that only a keen ear could catch, he heard
a sound that made him smile with pleasure. He knew it for the distant,
throaty bawl of King Polo--King Polo, his champion Short Horn bull,
thrice Grand Champion also of all bulls at Sacramento at the California
State Fairs. The smile was slow in easing from Dick Forrest's face, for
he dwelt a moment on the new triumphs he had destined that year for
King Polo on the Eastern livestock circuits. He would show them that a
bull, California born and finished, could compete with the cream of
bulls corn-fed in Iowa or imported overseas from the immemorial home
of Short Horns.
Not until the smile faded, which was a matter of seconds, did he reach
out in the dark and press the first of a row of buttons. There were three
rows of such buttons. The concealed lighting that spilled from the huge
bowl under the ceiling revealed a sleeping-porch, three sides of which
were fine-meshed copper screen. The fourth side was the house wall,
solid concrete, through which French windows gave access.
He pressed the second button in the row and the bright light
concentered at a particular place on the concrete wall, illuminating, in a
row, a clock, a barometer, and centigrade and Fahrenheit thermometers.
Almost in a sweep of glance he read the messages of the dials: time
4:30; air pressure, 29:80, which was normal at that altitude and season;
and temperature, Fahrenheit, 36°. With another press, the gauges of
time and heat and air were sent back into the darkness.
A third button turned on his reading lamp, so arranged that the light fell
from above and behind without shining into his eyes. The first button
turned off the concealed lighting overhead. He reached a mass of
proofsheets from the reading stand, and, pencil in hand, lighting a

cigarette, he began to correct.
The place was clearly the sleeping quarters of a man who worked.
Efficiency was its key note, though comfort, not altogether Spartan,
was also manifest. The bed was of gray enameled iron to tone with the
concrete wall. Across the foot of the bed, an extra coverlet, hung a gray
robe of wolfskins with every tail a-dangle. On the floor, where rested a
pair of slippers, was spread a thick-coated skin of mountain goat.
Heaped