The Desert Fiddler — Edition Insights

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In Category - Exploration Survival Adventure Tales

Authors: Hamby, William H. (William Henry), 1876-1928 Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2008 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: Western stories; Fiddlers -- Fiction; Cotton farmers -- Fiction Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

Edition facts

Words 45,516

Reading time 198 min

Text sections 6

The Desert Fiddler — Edition Insights can be approached with a clearer sense of reading commitment from its source measurements: 45,516 words, 3 hr 18 min estimated reading time, and 6 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 14.4 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Western stories,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Source: Project Gutenberg record #25960

In Imperial Valley, a cotton-fixing mechanic named Bob Rogeen swaps his gun for a fiddle, lends money on cotton bales, and navigates debts, irrigation canals, and a mutual discovery with Imogene Chandler. Catalog subjects (fiddlers, cotton farmers) are present but the excerpts foreground lending, machinery, and desert night atmosphere.

Editorial Edition Score 4.7/5

★★★★★ ★★★★★

Calculated from edition completeness, EPUB availability, text structure and catalogue metadata. Not a user rating.

How this score is calculated

Description quality20 pts
Title & short description10 pts
Source metadata20 pts
Text length15 pts
Chapters / structure15 pts
EPUB file integrity20 pts

Total of 100 points, scaled to a 2.5-5.0 range. Editions with an empty description or a missing EPUB file are not scored.

Edition quality

File: pg25960

Read the Text

Bob was out in front of the hardware store dressed in a woollen shirt and overalls, and bareheaded, setting up a cotton planter, when an old gentleman in a linen duster, who had been pacing restlessly up and down the walk like a distant relative waiting for the funeral procession to start, stopped on the sidewalk to watch him work. Whether it was the young man's appearance, his whistling at his work or merely the way he used his hands that attracted the old gentleman was not certain. But after a moment he remarked in a crabbedly friendly tone:

"Young man, you know your business."

"The other fellow's business, you mean," replied Bob without looking up from the bolt he was adjusting. "It is not mine, you know." Bob had been repeating during the last two days the remark of the hill billy--"I'm a willin' cuss, but I ain't got no brains." He had begun to wonder if he was not in the same wagon. He had always thought he had brains, but here he was at twenty-eight no better off than the hill billy. Perhaps not as well, for Noah Ezekiel Foster was getting more per month for riding one tractor than Bob was for selling twenty.

The old gentleman made a noise in his throat that corresponded to a chuckle in a less belligerent man.

"Do you sell farm machinery over there?" The store faced the line; and he nodded toward the Mexican side.

"Know the country pretty well?"

"Yes." The young man rose up with the wrench in his hand, and looked for the first time into the gray-blue eyes under the bushy iron-gray brows. "The country is the same as it is on this side. The people somewhat different."

"Any good chances to invest money over there?" asked the old gentleman.

"I suppose so." Bob stopped to pick up another nut and started to screw it on. "I'm not bothered much hunting for investments. But I reckon there is a chance for a man with money anywhere."

"To spend it," added the other fellow, sharply. "Any place will do for a fool and his money to part. But, young man, it is easier to earn money with brains than it is to keep it without them."

Bob's eyes looking past the old gentleman saw a youngish woman dressed in widow's weeds--very expensive weeds--coming rapidly down the walk from the hotel, and knew she was coming for the old man. As she came nearer, Bob saw she had tawny yellow hair, with slate-coloured eyes and a pious mouth. Her carriage was very erect, very ladylike, and patently she was from the East.

"Oh, Uncle," she gurgled and, as the old gentleman turned, with a little burst of enthusiasm she threw her arms about his neck.

"When did you get in, Evy?" The old gentleman managed to disengage the arms without giving the appearance of heartlessness. His voice was crabbed, but sounded as though it might be from the length of the vocal cords rather than the shortness of disposition.

"Last night." There was an aggrieved touch of self-denying complaint in the tone. "And the little hotel is perfectly wretched. I had such a horrid room--and I felt so conspicuous alone. The landlady told me you had been there looking for me this morning before I was up. I'm so glad to see you, Uncle; just as soon as I heard of poor Aunt Ellen's death I felt that I must come and look after you at any sacrifice." There was a slight pause in which the old gentleman did not venture a remark. "But, Uncle"--there was accusation in the tone--"why did you ever come out to this awful country? The dust was simply awful--I think some of my clothes are ruined."

"The old horse is across the street." The uncle turned and started toward a very high-powered, expensive car.

"Who was that old chap?" Bob asked of Dayton, who came up from breakfast just as the car drove off.

"That's Jim Crill--Texas oil fields. Staying at El Centro and looking for a place to drop his money, I hear. But I wonder who's the lady? I saw her get off the train with Reedy Jenkins yesterday evening."

"A dear relative," remarked Bob with a grin, "come to take care of him since his wife died--and he struck oil."

After a moment--the planter finished--Bob asked casually:

"Does Benson own the Red Butte Ranch?"

Continue Reading →

The Desert Fiddler opens not with a fiddle but with a midnight tractor repair call. Bob Rogeen, an implement dealer’s employee, reaches for his gun but takes his fiddle instead—a swap that sets the tone for a story where practical mechanics and musical impulse coexist. The setting is Imperial Valley, described with specific details: a chinaberry tree in a patio, the smell of sagebrush, a clump of bamboo stirred by wind, and the Mexican border town of Mexicali with its open saloons and the Red Owl gambling hall. The narrative voice is colloquial and brisk, with lines like “Here is where the early bird catches the tractor—and the devil.”

Cotton, Credit, and the Compress Receipt

The catalog subject “Cotton farmers” is well supported, but the excerpts focus less on farming itself and more on the financial machinery around cotton. Bob’s job is to lend money on cotton already baled and at the compress. He proposes lending six cents a pound on compress receipts so growers can hold out for a price rise. The old financier puts $25,000 at Bob’s disposal. Bob even lends himself five cents a pound on his own 180 bales. The language is precise about interest rates (“the usual rate for loans on the Mexican side”) and debt structures. The Chandler ranch’s relief comes as a $4,500 loan that yields $1,400 above debts. The excerpts show a world where survival depends on credit, not just irrigation.

The Fiddler’s Place in the Story

Despite the title and catalog subject “Fiddlers,” the fiddle appears only briefly in the provided text. Bob takes his fiddle instead of his gun when he rides out at night, and the illustrations list includes “Jenkins and Lolita awed by Percy’s fiddling” and “Lolita tries her wiles on Percy.” The fiddle is clearly a plot device, but the excerpts do not show Bob playing it or explain its significance. The catalog subject may overstate the fiddle’s role relative to the financial and romantic plot visible here. Readers should expect the fiddle to matter more later, but the opening chapters emphasize Bob’s mechanical and lending skills over his musical ones.

Desert Nights and Dialogue Patterns

The excerpts reveal a consistent attention to sensory details of the desert night: “slanting moonlight,” “wind with the smell of sagebrush,” and the contrast between sleeping American town and lively Mexican saloons. Dialogue is snappy and often carries plot information. Bob’s speech is marked by good-natured growls (“A love—lee time to go to work”) and understated humor. The old financier speaks in curt commands (“Make the loans, then explain the paper afterward”). Imogene Chandler’s dialogue mixes arch teasing (“What means the gasolene chariot?”) with genuine relief. The narrative voice occasionally uses mild exclamations (“By the great horn spoon”) and internal reactions (“Bob felt a choking in his throat”). These patterns suggest a style that balances action, romance, and regional color.

The excerpts offer a narrow window into The Desert Fiddler: the first chapter and a later scene of loan-making. They show a protagonist who is both a fixer of tractors and a lender of money, set against a vividly drawn Imperial Valley. The fiddle, despite the title, is barely sounded. Readers should approach the book expecting a western story of finance and romance, with the fiddle likely emerging as a symbol or plot turn later. The catalog subjects are accurate but incomplete guides to the early chapters’ actual content.

I keep thinking about Bob in The Desert Fiddler, how he traded a gun for something quieter, and how the desert nights there felt so full of unfinished business. That same tender uncertainty runs through The Candidate: A Political Romance — Inside the Classic — not big gestures, just two people circling each other slowly, the way real longing usually moves.