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Chapter 2

Problem 2.1

1. Π (2t + 5) = Π 2
5
This indicates first we have to plot Π(2t) and then shift it to left
t+ 2 .
5
by 2. A plot is shown below:

Π (2t + 5 )
✻

✲ t
− 11
4 − 94

P∞
2. n=0 Λ(t − n) is a sum of shifted triangular pulses. Note that the sum of the left and right
side of triangular pulses that are displaced by one unit of time is equal to 1, The plot is given
below
x (t)
✻2

1
✲ t
−1

3. It is obvious from the definition of sgn(t) that sgn(2t) = sgn(t). Therefore x3 (t) = 0.

3
4. x4 (t) is sinc(t) contracted by a factor of 10.

0.8

0.6

0.4

0.2

−0.2

−0.4
−1 −0.8 −0.6 −0.4 −0.2 0 0.2 0.4 0.6 0.8 1

4
Problem 2.2

1. x[n] = sinc(3n/9) = sinc(n/3).

0.8

0.6

0.4

0.2

−0.2

−0.4
−20 −15 −10 −5 0 5 10 15 20

n n
4 −1 1 −1
≤ 2 , i.e., −2 ≤ n ≤ 10, we have x[n] = 1.
1
2. x[n] = Π 3 . If − 2 ≤ 4
3

0.9

0.8

0.7

0.6

0.5

0.4

0.3

0.2

0.1

0
−20 −15 −10 −5 0 5 10 15 20

3. x[n] = n u (n/4) − ( n − 1)u (n/4 − 1). For n < 0, x[n] = 0, for 0 ≤ n ≤ 3, x[n] = n
and
4 −1 4 −1 4

for n ≥ 4, x[n] = n4− n4 + 1 = 1.

5
 1

0.9

0.8

0.7

0.6

0.5

0.4

0.3

0.2

0.1

0
−5 0 5 10 15 20

Problem 2.3
x1 [n] = 1 and x2 [n] = cos(2π n) = 1, for all n. This shows that two signals can be different but
their sampled versions be the same.

Problem 2.4
Let x1 [n] and x2 [n] be two periodic signals with periods N1 and N2 , respectively, and let N =
LCM(N1 , N2 ), and define x[n] = x1 [n] + x2 [n]. Then obviously x1 [n + N] = x1 [n] and x2 [n + N] =
x2 [n], and hence x[n] = x[n + N ], i.e., x[n] is periodic with period N .
For continuous-time signals x1 (t) and x2 (t) with periods T1 and T2 respectively, in general we cannot find a T
such that T = k1 T1 = k2 T2 for integers k1 and k2 . This is obvious for instance if T1 = 1 and T2 = π . The necessary
T1
and sufficient condition for the sum to be periodic is that be a T2
rational number.

Problem 2.5
Using the result of problem 2.4 we have:

1. The frequencies are 2000 and 5500, their ratio (and therefore the ratio of the periods) is rational, hence the
sum is periodic.

5500
2. The frequencies are 2000 and . Their
π ratio is not rational, hence the sum is not periodic.

3. The sum of two periodic discrete-time signal is periodic.

6
 4. The fist signal is periodic but cos[11000n] is not periodic, since there is no N such that cos[11000(n +
N )] = cos(11000n) for all n. Therefore the sum cannot be periodic.

Problem 2.6
1)
e −t t >0 − e −t t >0
x1 (t) = −e t t <0 =⇒ x1 (−t) =
et t < 0 = −x1 (t)
0 t =0 0 t =0

Thus, x1 (t) is an odd signal

π π π
2) x2 (t) = cos 1 20π t + is neither even nor odd. We have cos 120π t + = cos cos(120π t)−
3 3 3
π π π
sin 3 sin(120π t). Therefore x2e (t) = cos3 cos(120π t) and x2o (t) = − 3 sin sin(120π t).
(Note: This part can also be considered as a special case of part 7 of this problem)
3)
x3 (t) = e−|t | =⇒ x3 (−t) = e−|(−t)| = e−|t | = x3 (t)

Hence, the signal x3 (t) is even.

4)

x4 (t) = t t ≥0 0 t≥0
=⇒ x4 (−t) =
0 t <0 −t t <0

The signal x4 (t) is neither even nor odd. The even part of the signal is

t
x4 (t) + x4 (−t) 2 t≥0 |t |
x4,e (t) = = =
−t
2
2 t <0 2

The odd part is

t
x4 (t) − x4 (−t) t ≥0 t
x4,o (t) = = 2 =
t
2
2 t <0 2

5)

x5 (t) = x1 (t) − x2 (t) = ⇒ x5 (−t) = x1 (−t) − x2 (−t) = x1 (t) + x2 (t)

Clearly x5 (−t) ≠ x5 (t) since otherwise x2 (t) = 0 ∀t . Similarly x5 (−t) ≠ −x5 (t) since otherwise
x1 (t) = 0 ∀t . The even and the odd parts of x5 (t) are given by

x5 (t) + x5 (−t)
x5,e (t) = = x1 (t)
2
x5 (t) − x5 (−t)
x5,o (t) = = −x2 (t)
2
7
8
Problem 2.7
R
For the first two questions we will need the integral I = eax cos2 xdx .
Z Z
1 1
cos2 x deax = eax cos2 x +
1
I = ax
a a a e sin 2x dx
Z
1 ax 1
= e cos2 x + 2 sin 2x deax
a a
Z
1 ax 1
cos2 x + 2 eax sin 2x −
2
= e ax
a a a2 Z e cos 2x dx
1 ax 1 ax 2
2 ax 2
= e cos x + e sin 2x − e (2 cos x − 1) dx
a a2 a2 Z
1 ax 2 1 ax 2 ax 4
= e cos x + e sin 2x − e dx − I
a a2 a2 a2
Thus,
1 2 ax
I= (a cos
2 x + sin 2x) + e
4 + a2 a

1)
ZT ZT
2 2
Ex = lim x12 (t)dx = lim e−2t cos2 tdt
T →∞ − T2 T →∞ 0
T
1 h i
1 e−2t
2
= lim (−2 cos t + sin 2t) −
2

T →∞ 8 0
1 T 3
= lim (−2 cos2 + sin T − 1)e−T + 3 =
T →∞ 8 2 8

Thus x1 (t) is an energy-type signal and the energy content is 3/8

2)
ZT ZT
2 2
Ex = lim T
x22 (t)dx = lim e−2t cos2 tdt
T →∞ − 2 T →∞ − T2
Z0 ZT
2

= lim e −2t
cos tdt
2
e−2t cos2 tdt
T →∞ − T2 0

But,
Z0
1h i 0

lim e−2t cos2 tdt = lim (−2 cos2 t + sin 2t) − 1 e−2t T
T →∞ − T T →∞ 8 − 2
2

9
 +

1 T
= lim −3 + (2 cos2 + 1 + sin T )eT =∞
T →∞ 8 2

since 2 + cos θ + sin θ > 0. Thus, Ex = ∞ since as we have seen from the first question the second integral is bounded.
Hence, the signal x2 (t) is not an energy-type signal. To test if x2 (t) is a power-type signal we find Px .
Z0 ZT
1
e−2t cos2 dt + lim e−2t cos2 dt
1 2
Px = lim
T →∞ T −2
T T →∞ T 0

1
0
 R T2
But limT
1
e−2t cos2 dt is zero and
→∞ T 0
Z0
1 1 T
lim e−2t cos2 dt = lim 2 cos2 + 1 + sin T eT
T →∞ T − 2T T →∞ 8T 2
1 1
> lim eT > lim (1 + T + T 2 ) > lim T = ∞
T →∞ T T →∞ T T →∞

Thus the signal x2 (t) is not a power-type signal.

3)

ZT ZT ZT
2
Ex
2 2
= lim x32(t)dx = lim sgn (t)dt = lim
2
dt = lim T = ∞
T →∞ − T2 T →∞ − T
2
T →∞ − T2 T →∞
T T
Z Z
1 1 1
Px dt = lim
2 2
= lim sgn (t)dt = lim
2 T =1
2
T →∞ T − T2 T →∞ T − T T →∞ T

The signal x3 (t) is of the power-type and the power content is 1.

4)
First note that
ZT X
∞ Z k+ 1
2 2f
A cos(2π f t)dt = A
k− 21f cos(2π f t)dt = 0
lim T
T →∞ −
k=−∞
2

so that

ZT ZT
2 1 2
lim A cos (2π f t)dt
2 2
= lim (A2 + A2 cos(2π 2f t))dt
T →∞ − T T →∞ 2 − T
2
2
T
Z
1 2 1
= lim A2 dt = lim A2 T = ∞
T →∞ 2 − T2 T →∞ 2

ZT
2
Ex = lim T
(A2 cos2 (2π f1 t) + B 2 cos2 (2π f2 t) + 2AB cos(2π f1 t) cos(2π f2 t))dt
T →∞ − 2
ZT Z T
2 2
= lim A2 cos2 (2π f1 t)dt + lim B 2 cos2 (2π f2 t)dt +
T →∞ − T T →∞ − T2
2
T

Z
2
AB lim [cos2 (2π (f1 + f2 ) + cos2 (2π (f1 − f2 )]dt
T →∞ − T2

= ∞ +∞ +0= ∞

1
1
Thus the signal is not of the energy-type. To test if the signal is of the power-type we consider two cases f1 = f2 and
f1 ≠ f2 . In the first case
ZT
1 2
Px = lim (A + B)2 cos2 (2π f1 )dt
T →∞ T − T2
ZT
1 2 1
= lim (A + B)2 dt = 2 (A + B)
2
T →∞ 2T − T2

1
2
If f1 ≠ f2 then
ZT
1 2
Px = lim (A2 cos2 (2π f1 t) + B 2 cos2 (2π f2 t) + 2AB cos(2π f1 t) cos(2π f2 t))dt
T →∞ T −2
T
" #
1 A2 T B2T A2 B2
= lim + = +

T →∞ T 2 2 2 2

Thus the signal is of the power-type and if f1 = f2 the power content is (A + B)2 /2 whereas if
f1 ≠ f2 the power content is 1 (A22+ B 2 )

Problem 2.8

t P∞
1. Let x(t) = 2Λ − Λ(t), then x1 (t) = x(t − 4n). First we plot x(t) then by shifting
2 n=−∞
it by multiples of 4 we can plot x1 (t). x(t) is a triangular pulse of width 4 and height 2
from which a standard triangular pulse of width 1 and height 1 is subtracted. The result is a trapezoidal pulse,
which when replicated at intervals of 4 gives the plot of x1 (t).
x (t)
✻1

1
✲ t
−6 −2 2 6

2. This is the sum of two periodic signals with periods 2π and 1. Since the ratio of the two periods is not
rational the sum is not periodic (by the result of problem 2.4)

3. sin[n] is not periodic. There is no integer N such that sin[n + N] = sin[n] for all n.

Problem 2.9
1)
ZT ZT
1 2 1 1
A2 ej(2π f0 t +θ)
2 2
Px = lim dt = lim A2 dt = lim A 2 T = A2
T →∞ T −T
2
T →∞ T 2T
− T →∞ T

Thus x(t) = Aej(2π f0 t +θ) is a power-type signal and its power content is A2 .

2)
ZT ZT ZT
1 2 1 2 A2 1 2 A2
Px = lim A cos (2π f0 t + θ) dt = lim
2 2 dt + lim cos(4π f0 t + 2θ) dt
T →∞ T −T
2 T →∞ T −T
2
2 T →∞ T −T
2
2

1
3
As T → ∞, the there will be no contribution by the second integral. Thus the signal is a power-type
A 2
signal and its power content is . 2

1
1
3)
Z T ZT
1 2 1 2 1T 1
Px = lim u2 (t)dt = lim dt = lim =
−1
T →∞ T −T
2
T →∞ T 0 T →∞ T 2 2

Thus the unit step signal is a power-type signal and its power content is 1/2

4)
ZT Z T
T /2
2 2 1 1
2 −2
Ex = lim x (t)dt = lim
2
K t dt = lim 2K t 2 2

T →∞ −T T →∞ 0 T →∞ 0
2
√ 1

= lim 2K 2 T 2 =∞
T →∞

Thus the signal is not an energy-type signal.

ZT ZT
1 2 1 2 1
Px = lim x (t)dt = lim
2
K 2 t − 2 dt
T →∞ T −T
2
T →∞ T 0
T /2 √
1 1 1 1 1

= lim 2K 2 t 2 = lim 2K 2 (T /2) 2 = lim 2K T − 2 = 0

2
T →∞ T 0 T →∞ T T →∞

Since Px is not bounded away from zero it follows by definition that the signal is not of the power- type (recall that
power-type signals should satisfy 0 < Px < ∞).

Problem 2.10
t + 1, −1 ≤ t ≤ 0 1 t >0

Λ(t) = −t + 1 , 0≤t ≤ 1 u−1 (t) = 1/2 t = 0

0, o.w. 0 t <0

Thus, the signal x(t) = Λ(t)u−1 (t) is given by

0 t <0 0 t ≤ −1
1/2 t =0 t + 1 −1 ≤ t < 0
x(t) = =⇒ x(−t) =
−t + 1 0 ≤ t ≤ 1 1/2 t=0
0 t ≥1 0 t >0

The even and the odd part of x(t) are given by

x(t) + x(−t) 1
10
xe (t) = = Λ(t)
2 2

0 t ≤ −1
−t −1
−1 ≤ t < 0
x(t) − x(−t)
2
=
xo (t) = 2 0 t=0
−t +1
2 0<t ≤ 1

0 1≤ t

11
Problem 2.11
1) Suppose that

x(t) = xe1 (t) + x o1 (t) = x 2e(t) + x 2o(t)

with x 1e(t), x 2 (t)

e even signals and x (t), ox (t) odd
1 1
o signals. Then, x(−t) = x (t) − x e(t) so that
1 1
o

x(t) + x(−t)
x1
e (t) =
2
x 2e (t) + x
2 (t) +2 x (−t)2+ x (−t)
o e o
=
2
2xe (t) + x o(t) − x 2o(t)
2 2
= = xe (t)
2
2

Thus x 1e(t) = x 2 e(t) and x 1 (t)

o = x(t) − x (t)
1
e = x(t) − x (t)
2
e = x (t)o
2

2) Let x 1e(t), x 2e(t) be two even signals and x 1(t), xo2 (t) beotwo odd signals. Then,
y(t) = x 1 (t)x 2 (t) = y (−t) = x 1(−t)x 2 (−t) = x 1 (t)x 2 (t) = y(t)
e e ⇒ e e e e

z(t) = x 1 (t)x 2 (t) = z(−t) = x 1 (−t)x 2 (−t) = (−x 1 (t))(−x 2 (t)) = z(t)
o o ⇒ o o o o

Thus the product of two even or odd signals is an even signal. For v (t) = x 1 (t)x 1 (t) wee have o

v (−t) = x e1 (−t)x 1o(−t) = x 1e(t)(−x 1o(t)) = −x 1e(t)x 1 o(t) = −v(t)

Thus the product of an even and an odd signal is an odd signal.

t 2
3) One trivial example is t + 1 and . t +1

Problem 2.12
1) x1 (t) = Π(t) + Π(−t). The signal Π(t) is even so that x1 (t) = 2Π(t)

. . . . . . . . . .1. . . . . . . .

1 1
2 2
12
Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
share Bill's shelter, whatever it was. This, Al said, was intended to
induce intimacy and the exchange of confidences.
They were to secure samples, and what details they could,
whereupon Al was to carry off the camp equipment and leave
Rayfield and Emmett stranded there, so that Bill must take them in.
This, he said, was to induce further intimacy and to make it more
permanent.
There Al's duty ended. After he had reported to Jim Lambert, he was
to have the burro and the outfit, and could go where he pleased, so
long as he kept his mouth shut and remained away from Goldfield.
He was to be paid top packer's wages and a share in whatever was
made out of Bill's claims.
"Then what are you breaking your word with them for?" was Bill's
first surprising question. "Why aren't you keeping your mouth shut?"
"Wal, they hain't played square with me, Mr. Dale. They hain't give
me the share they agreed to." Al lifted his dingy hat to scratch a
head that looked as if it needed scratching.
"Haven't you got a written agreement?"
"No, I hain't. They wouldn't have any writin' on it. They said it
wouldn't be best."
"Well, that's good sense. It wouldn't." Bill got up and put more wood
in the stove, for a raw wind was blowing up from the desert. "Well,
what do you expect me to do about it?" He turned on Al so abruptly
that Al dodged, expecting a blow perhaps.
"Wal, I dunno—onless it might mebby be worth somethin' to yuh, t'
know about the frame-up." Cupidity flared for a moment in Al's eyes.
"Yo're a rich man, Mr. Dale," he whined. "I ain't got a dime to my
name."
Bill replaced the lid on the stove, scraped pieces of bark from the
surface with the poker and sat down again, eyeing Al
contemptuously.
"Yes, I'm a rich man—according to your standard. Did you ever hear
of crooks making a man rich, Al? Doesn't that strike you as kind of
funny—a crook doing that?"
"Wal, I dunno's it does, Mr. Dale—not if they was gittin' five dollars,
say, whilst you was gittin' one."
Bill laughed contemptuously.
"If they were all that generous, they'd be pretty apt to pay you
enough to keep your mouth shut, anyway. Or give some one a few
dollars to bump you off. There are thin spots in your yarn, Al. I'm
afraid it isn't worth much."
"Wall, they paid me some," Al retorted with a craven kind of
acrimony. "An' they don't b'lieve in killin'. They say that's crewd an'
danger'us."
"They'll pay you more," Bill snapped, "if they're afraid of your
tongue. You're a cheap skate, Al—an awful cheap skate. If you'll
take my advice, you'll get out of town—to-night. The world's full of
places besides Parowan. Take him out, Tommy; and dump him
somewhere outside the city limits. And if you want to bring any more
like him into camp, give them a good scrubbing first. I'll have to
clean house after him. Get!"
This last command was to Al, who overturned the box in his haste to
get off it. Tommy herded him out with the ivory-handled gun,
looking a bit crestfallen and a good deal puzzled. Tommy's thought
processes were too simple to follow Bill's logic, or to understand his
attitude. It seemed to him that Bill was almost criminally indifferent
to his own interests, and that his leniency with Al Freeman fell but
little short of approval. It had been labor wasted, bringing Al there to
tell Bill his story, and he regretted now that he had not been content
to kick Al out of the saloon and let it go at that.
But after he was gone, Bill sat dejectedly beside the stove, his arms
folded across his lifted knees, feet in the oven, and brooded over the
amazing story. It seemed incredible that Al could be telling the truth,
—and yet, there were some things that Al could not possibly have
imagined. If there were thin spots in his story, there were also
details that carried conviction.
Luella, having retired under the bunk during the interview, came
stalking out and climbed, beak and claws, up Bill's back and perched
upon his shoulder, leaning forward and making kissing sounds
against his cheek, which was her way of coaxing his attention. Bill
reached up a hand and stroked her back absently.
"Speak up now," Luella admonished, having liked the sound of that
phrase. "That's a hell of a note, ain't it?"
Bill pulled her down and held her on her back between his hands,
rolling her gently from side to side.
"It is," he answered gravely. "You've stated the case exactly." He set
the parrot on his knee, where she immediately began to preen her
ruffled feathers.
That was the convincing part of Al's story,—repeating the things
Luella had said before the courthouse. Al claimed to have been
there, and to have heard her talk. He had chanced to pass by the
steps just as Jim Lambert, Rayfield and Emmett were coming up to
the courthouse from town. He claimed to have been in the offices of
Jim Lambert later, when the plot was hatched. If that were a lie,
how could Al repeat what the parrot must have said? How could he
know that the burros, and the parrot with them, had waited before
the courthouse steps alone or otherwise? Al had named the very day
and the very hour of Bill's visit to the recorder's office. The date and
hour were written upon his location filing, together with book and
page of the record. Had Bill chanced to forget, that record would
serve to remind him; but Bill did not forget. Al had never seen those
papers. He could not possibly have told about Luella unless he had
both seen and heard her there.
The incredible feature of the yarn was the fact that Rayfield and
Emmett—John and Walter, he had come to call them in his mind—
had been the chief instigators of the plot. And there again Bill
floundered in vain speculation. What was the plot? Not the mere
creation of jobs for themselves, surely? Al had professed ignorance
of their governmental position. They may have been research men,
as they claimed. He didn't know, and he had never heard that talked
about, except as a plausible reason for their showing up at Bill's
claims. He was sure that they had lied about working out from Las
Vegas west, however; having been in Goldfield, they could not have
been prospecting Forty Mile Canyon at that particular time.
What had they gained? A block of stock for each of them, to be
sure. Bill had been generous; had given them each fifty thousand
shares of the promotion stock. He could scarcely credit any plot to
get it, however. Still, that meant fifty thousand dollars immediately
after the company was organized. Bill had known of many a murder
committed for a fraction of that amount.
One discrepancy in the story eluded him for some time, though he
groped for it vaguely. Then Al's retort came to him with force—"Not
if they was gittin' five dollars where you was gittin' one"—and set
him scowling, vacant-eyed, at the tent wall.
Were they getting five dollars to his one? How? They had full
control, to be sure. But their control seemed to be of the
conservative, constructive kind that favored dividends. And there
was the thing that seemed incredible. Would crooks, of the bold type
that would follow a prospector and lay cunning plans to grab what
he had found, play a straight game afterwards? It did not seem to
Bill that it could be possible. A crook is a crook. Once in control, they
could have raided and wrecked the company a dozen times in his
absence. Instead, they had worried over one passed dividend.
Bill lay that night staring up at the whitish blur of his tent roof with a
cloudy moon above it, and thought circles around the thing. Walter
and John couldn't be the thieves Al Freeman had called them. A thief
cannot keep his fingers off other men's money. Walter and John had
made money for many a man. But that painfully exact report of
seeing and hearing Luella in Goldfield was true. It had to be true.
That was something which no man could build convincingly out of
his imagination; not to Bill, where Luella was concerned. She had a
certain fixed idea in her talk, always. She seemed able to
discriminate between subjects, and to stick to one for minutes at a
time before drifting into other sentences that conveyed an entirely
different impression of what might be going on back of those
observant, yellow eyes. To one who did not know Luella, it would be
impossible to simulate her uncanny imitation of intelligence,—which
Bill more than half believed to be genuine reasoning power. Perhaps
the bird was especially quick to read faces and to connect certain
expressions on the countenance with certain groups of words. It
could not be accident, in Bill's opinion. Accidents do not happen with
consistent regularity, and Luella's remarks were usually pithy and to
the point. It was therefore a fixed basis of reasoning, in Bill's mind,
to grant the authenticity of Al Freeman's contention that Luella was
at the bottom of the plot.
Beyond that point, however, Bill continued to flounder in doubts. He
hated himself for even speculating upon the dishonesty of Walter
and John, although he had found them a bit touchy, a shade jealous
of their authority and their judgment. Walter had assumed executive
control; John, as treasurer, had the responsibility of keeping the
accounts impeccable. Bill had attended the annual stockholders'
meeting, on the last afternoon of the year, and he had been almost
awed by the meticulousness of John Emmett's financial report. It
had sounded like some carefully compiled government statistics, and
Bill had been compelled to sit and listen to a careful reading.
The reëlection of the Board of Directors had been a mere form. Bill,
Walter and John were the directors,—Nevada demanding only three.
They were as inevitably reëlected to the same offices. There had not
been many stockholders present, the day being almost a holiday.
Those who were present voted perfunctorily and with complete
unanimity; indeed, so harmonious had been the meeting that every
one may as well have stayed at home, save the secretary, Bill
thought.
Therefore, in their pardonable desire to be left alone to run the
machinery, since they had started it in the first place, Bill saw the full
approval of the resident stockholders. And if the stockholders whose
very business life depended upon the success of Parowan
Consolidated and the integrity of her officers were satisfied, surely
there was no reason why the president should meddle. The business
men of Parowan would be the first to know if anything went wrong,
Bill told himself over and over.
Yet the story Al Freeman had told would not erase itself from his
mind, nor could he call it a venomous bit of spite and so discount it.
There had been bothersome details which a lawyer would call
corroborative evidence. There was the ineffectual campsetting, the
night of their arrival; rather, the late afternoon. Tommy had declared
then that Al Freeman had been bluffing, that he had not tried to get
their tent up and pegged down securely before the storm broke. Al
confirmed Tommy's assertion. The plan, he declared, had been to
manage to pass the night with Bill. They had decided that when they
first glimpsed his tent.
Then the invasion of the tent while Doris was there alone he had
explained. Emmett had seen the sample sack half full of ore, but had
not dared to investigate the contents at the time. He had ordered Al
to go back and see what was in that sack. It it were the rich ore
they suspected, he was to abstract what he could, load the burros
and hurry back to Goldfield, leaving Rayfield and Emmett nothing
but their blankets. He said they knew that Bill had plenty of grub.
These details fitted in with what had occurred within Bill's
knowledge. If Al were lying, he was assuredly making a fine, artistic
job of it all. The inconceivable part was the personality of the two
men he accused, and the part they had played and were still playing
in Parowan Consolidated and in the town. They had promoted their
campaign cleverly and efficiently, mostly by the power of suggestion.
"If it's true," said Bill harassedly at breakfast next morning, "they're
the tamest bandits I ever saw in my life. I can't believe it."
"Seems like a dream," Luella assented promptly, pausing in her
nibbling of coffee-soaked crust. "Ain't that a hell of a note! I can't
believe it." Then, blinking rapidly as memory revived another
speech, she added softly, "Kiss me, Doris. Say you love me."
Bill's face paled. He looked at the bird, swept out an impulsive arm
and pushed her off the table, soaked crust and all. He bit his lip,
fighting the spasm of loneliness, or heartsick longing for the life he
had dreamed of living with Doris.
Of a sudden his head went down upon a curved arm, his shoulders
twitching a bit as he still fought. Luella, crawling up to forgive and
be forgiven, made her clicking, kissing sounds in vain against his
cheek.
"Hell of a note!" she complained at last, when Bill gave no sign of
response. "I can't believe it. Seems like a dream. You don't say!"
Then, spying the butter unguarded, she stepped down upon the
table and pigeon-toed in that direction. "Help yourself," she invited
gravely. "Plenty more where that came from. Help yourself."
And Bill, his soul flayed with bitter memories, with dreams slowly
strangled and returning wraithlike to mock his loneliness, did not
even hear.
 CHAPTER NINETEEN
"THERE'LL BE MORE TO COME OF IT"
Walter Rayfield reached out his hand with deliberate firmness and
laid his forefinger upon the push button on his desk. In the distance
could be heard a faint buzzing. Almost immediately thereafter, John
Emmett opened a door and walked in, a yellow invoice in his hand
and a look of inquiry on his face.
Rayfield waved a plump hand toward a chair.
"Sit down, John, and listen to the story that Bill has brought us this
morning. The most outrageous thing I ever heard in my life. Go on,
Bill—but go back to the beginning, if you don't mind. I want John to
hear what you have just told me."
Impassively Bill obeyed. When he had finished—and he spared no
details in the recital—he sat back and folded his arms, waiting to see
how they would take it; watching, too, for some sign that should
guide his judgment of the matter. He was still ashamed to doubt
them, still ready to believe that Al, having overheard the parrot, and
suspecting the significance of her remarks, had yet concocted the
rest of the story from some dark purpose of his own; revenge,
perhaps, but more likely in the hope of profiting by the tale. But Bill
had not spoken of his own belief in the two. He had told them what
Al said, making no comment of any kind, keeping his voice and his
face carefully neutral.
Rayfield and Emmett looked at each other. Emmett smiled slightly,
shrugged his shoulders and glanced down at the yellow invoice.
"Interesting bit of libel," he said contemptuously. "If there was any
truth in it, I wouldn't be getting a hump in my shoulders and ruining
my eyes over the Company books. Did you O K the order for these
engine parts, Walter? This invoice is not correct. The total is wrong,
and moreover the name of purchaser is not here. I wish you'd call
up the shop and ask about it. Tell them I can't accept it as it stands.
Make it plain that they must furnish a correct invoice, or take back
the merchandise." He dropped the invoice before Rayfield. "And
once more let me say that I absolutely refuse to accept anything
that is not signed by the purchaser. Who did this buying? The
engineer at the plant?"
"Now, now, never mind the invoice for a minute, John! I want to ask
Bill just one question. It may not be beneath your dignity, either, to
join me in wanting to know why Bill did not bring this Al Freeman to
us with that story. That hurts me, Bill. I can't understand why you
heard him out and did not give us the chance to face him with it. I—
I dislike to think that you gave the story any credence; but since
——"
Emmett turned and came back to the desk. His hard brown eyes
fixed themselves upon Bill's face.
"If Bill took enough stock in the yarn to listen to it, there's just one
thing for me to do. I'm responsible for the Company's funds. I think
I shall demand that you bring an auditor to examine the books."
"An auditor has gone over the books, hasn't he? You showed his
certificate at the annual meeting. And Al didn't say you had juggled
the accounts, John."
"No, he could hardly say that," Rayfield put in. "At this late day—
hoping, I suppose, that we could not prosecute him for stealing our
outfit—he claims that we arranged for him to steal it so that we
could board with Bill!" He threw back his head suddenly and
laughed, his sides and rounded front shaking with mirth.
"A fine tribute to your cooking, Bill! You should have given him a
dollar or two for that!"
"I thought you two ought to know what he's saying," Bill replied
soberly. He had no heart for joking, that morning. "He was telling it
in Tommy's Place, and Tommy overheard him and made him come to
me and repeat what he had said to others. I thought it was no more
than right to let you know."
"We appreciate your spirit, Bill, but I can't seem to understand his
object. Did he give you any valid reason for concocting such a yarn?"
"He said that you hadn't played fair with him. He said you had paid
him some money, but not what you had promised." Bill sighed,—a
purely physical incident caused by his general depression and the
ache in his heart for Doris. This conspiracy tale did not seem
important, now that he had told it to Walter and John. The sunny,
well-regulated offices, the sight of John and Walter on the job, busy
with Parowan affairs, reassured and shamed him—though he
reflected that he had not really doubted them, even in his midnight
musings when a man's faith burns weakest.
"I told him you'd have paid enough to keep his mouth shut," he
added. "And I wouldn't make enough of the yarn to bring him to
you. I told Tommy to take him out and dump him outside the city
limits."
"In that case," said John in a tone of displeasure, "I don't see just
what you can expect us to do about it; or why you came to us with
it during office hours. Walter may have all the time in the world to
gossip—but I happen to have work to do. When you decide what
you're going to do about it, let me know and I'll stand any
investigation you may want to start. But I can't stand here
discussing a crazy yarn like that unless it's of some importance to
the Company."
Bill rose and picked up his hat.
"I came and told you the yarn so you'll know what to do if Al
Freeman shows up again in Parowan. I won't be here for a week or
two, maybe. I'm taking the noon train. You can get me at the Palace
Hotel in Frisco, any time it's necessary."
"Going to bring the Missus back with you?" Rayfield pursed his lips
good-humoredly. "Hope you mean to give a house-warming when
you move into that mansion. I'd like to have some of these Parowan
folks see what you've got there. Well, so-long, old man. And after
all, I guess we're both grateful to you for warning us about Al
Freeman. I'll put the Chief of Police on his trail. If he shows up we'll
land him in the penitentiary for that robbery of our camp outfit. A
man like that's dangerous, left running at large and slandering his
betters."
Bill agreed with him and went down the stairs wondering just how
much of a fool he had made of himself. But that thought was
presently swallowed up in his anticipation of seeing Doris and little
Baby Mary within twenty-four hours. He had not intended to leave
so soon. He had meant to write Doris that the house was finished
and furnished, and to invite her, in a purely joking way, to invite her
to come and inspect his job. But up in the office he had suddenly
sickened of the town, and of Walter and John. He had a fierce desire
to look into one pair of eyes that he knew was loyal. Doris might not
agree with him always, she might fall short of his ideal as a wife, but
at least their interests were identical and she could never be guilty of
treachery. He was not so sure of the rest of the world.
He hurried to camp and got Luella, taking her to Tommy's Place. He
wanted Tommy to sleep up in the new house for safety's sake, and
he wanted to know what had become of Al.
He found Tommy in a rather difficult mood and did not stay to
explain his reasons for turning Al out with so little thought of his
importance. It seemed to Tommy that Bill was playing into the hands
of crooks, and as plainly as he dared Tommy told Bill so.
"Al's gone, Mr. Dale—but there'll be more to come of it," he said
carpingly. "Kape wan eye open, is my advice to yuh. For I tell yuh
plain that Al was not lyin', though yuh might think it. He c'uldn't look
yuh in the eye, Mr. Dale—an' when he's tellin' one of his lies he has
that way of lookin' at yuh, he puts the school books t' shame that
says a liar cannot look a man in the eye. So I know——"
"Train's whistling, Tommy. Keep your own eyes open and look after
the new house." It disturbed Bill to have Tommy voice something
which Bill himself would not concede to his consciousness. He did
not believe Al's story, because he refused to doubt the integrity of
his partners. He refused to doubt them, because to do so would pull
down his faith in the stability of Parowan, which he had chosen for
Mary's home. It was a round-about way to fight a doubt, but it was
the best Bill could do at that time. For, as is well known, nothing
ever thrives quite so luxuriantly as the seeds of suspicion.

Doris was glad to see Bill, though she was not enthusiastic over the
invitation to Parowan. She had thought that they might take a trip
east, now that the baby was old enough to travel, and had cut her
first two teeth. Of course, Doris would like to see her mother and
dad, but Parowan——
"Well, you've got a hundred-thousand-dollar house to step into,
honey, if you want to go." Bill looked at her wistfully. "I've heard
several women wishing they could visit a real mining camp, and I
thought maybe you'd like to take a party over for a week or two, and
give a sort of house-warming. Mrs. Baker Cole helped me choose the
furnishings, and she thought the plan of the house was perfect. You
won't be ashamed to have your friends see it. And there are some
nice folks in Parowan now."
Doris considered the matter. If Sophy Cole had helped Bill, of course,
that was different. The nice folks in Parowan, of course, did not
appeal to her in the slightest degree; but the house-party idea was
not a bad one. And she did want to see the old home again, she
discovered.
"We'd have to take servants from here, Bill—and you know I
positively couldn't think of staying longer than a couple of weeks or
so. And I'd have to see the place first, before I could ask any one
over. You're a dear, and all that, but a man simply can't know about
the little things that count when one is giving a party. And besides,
I'd have to arrange for amusements for the guests. There is so little
that one can do in the desert for entertainment."
"I'd like to have you go with me alone," Bill confessed. "I'd like to
have you all to myself for a little while in the new home. Has it ever
struck you, Doris, that we have lived before the public ever since we
were married?"
"I don't see how you can call this public," Doris retorted, glancing
around the room. "And until you went back to Nevada on this wild
scheme of yours, I'm sure we were together all the time—and by
ourselves too, an awful lot."
Bill extended an arm and tapped lightly against the wall. "Six or
eight inches between us and our neighbors. I call that living in
public. Well, shall we go over there together, just us two and the
baby?"
"I'll see," said Doris lightly. "Perhaps—with servants, of course. I'm
rather curious to see what kind of a house you and Sophy Cole
would build, anyway."
"Next week, then, let's go." Bill drew her toward him and kissed her.
"It would be to-morrow, but I've got something to look after, first.
Honey, don't think me a fool just because I love you so; and don't
laugh at me for wanting to see my wife and my baby under our own
roof. I can't help it. I'm human."
"You're extravagant," Doris corrected, patting him on the shoulder
with a slight condescension which Bill did not miss. "Think of
spending all that money on a house in the desert! I never heard of
such a thing. I'll bet folks over there are calling it Dale's Folly, this
minute."
Bill's eyebrows drew together. He looked down at her somberly.
"They're sure mistaken, then," he said grimly. "That's not Dale's
folly."
"You don't mean me, I hope?" A sparkle came into her eyes.
But Bill took his hat and left the room without even remembering
that he should ask to be excused, or make some courteous
explanation of his sudden departure.
 CHAPTER TWENTY
LUELLA ENTERTAINS
Bill stood on the south veranda and looked down upon the town,
where smoke was rising lazily from bent stovepipe and brick chimney
—the supper fires of Parowan's inhabitants—and away across the
desert beyond, where the Funeral Mountains stood shoulder deep in
purple shadows, the peaks smiling yet in rosetinted afterglow.
"Home!" he said between his teeth. "I made a mistake. I've only
built a house. I'm a damned fool. It takes two to make a home."
Behind him came faint murmurs of talk, high-keyed laughter, little
silences shattered suddenly by the refined babel of several women
exclaiming in unison. The clink of china punctuating the pauses.
Then, frank, uncompromising, came the voice of Luella, speaking
with awful distinctness.
"What the hell! Damned bunch of gossips. Won't you ever settle
down? Doris, for God sake listen."
A pause, then voices exclaiming once more. Slippered feet came
tack-tack across polished floors, muffled on the rugs, clicking when
the rug was passed. A ripple, rustle, quite close. Then silence.
Without turning his head Bill knew that Doris was standing in the
open doorway, looking at him in hot anger. Unconsciously he braced
himself, his face setting into forced serenity.
It came.
"Bill, I wish to heaven you'd come and get that parrot! She's in
there, walking up and down, looking at the floor and saying the
most awful things! You'll have to explain it somehow to my guests—
her calling them a bunch of damned gossips. It's beyond human
endurance. She's talking something awful. I'll call a servant to take
her out and wring her neck, if you don't come and get her. I mean
that, Bill."
Bill clicked his teeth together and faced her, smiling. But in the
pockets of his Palm Beach coat his hands were clenched, so that
trimmed nails dug into flesh.
"Your guests wanted to see Luella and hear her talk," he reminded
her with gentle raillery. "You told them how she would go up to baby
Mary and smooth down the baby's dress with her beak, and make
kissing sounds, and say, "She looks like you, Bill. Damned if she
don't." I heard you telling them. She's heard Don say that, every
time he comes here. Your guests begged to have her brought in——"
"Yes, and what did she do?" Doris was almost in tears; but ladies
with carefully powdered cheeks cannot afford tears, so Doris pressed
a twenty-five-dollar handkerchief to her lips and controlled herself.
"I'll tell you what she did! I brought the baby and held her down for
the parrot to talk to. And what did she say? 'What the hell! You
damned huzzy, git outa here!' That's what she said, to your own
baby! Now those women will go home and say that's the way you
talk to your family."
Bill's chuckle did not soothe her appreciably. She stood looking at
him as if she wanted to box his ears. Bill in cream colored Palm
Beach coat and trousers, soft silk shirt, white canvas shoes, was the
handsomest man in Parowan,—or in all Esmeralda County, for that
matter. The women guests of Doris recognized that fact, if Doris
herself overlooked it. Wherefore, when he yielded the point and
returned to the midst of the assembly, he saw eyes that brightened
as he looked into them, lips that smiled, a subdued little flutter at his
coming.
In the wide arch that Bill had designed to give Doris the long "vista"
which she so admired in other houses, Luella was pigeon-toeing
back and forth, her tail spread slightly, her eyes swift-flashing bits of
amber. She was peeved at something, in Bill's opinion. She paused
and tilted her head at him.
"Look who's here! Well, I'll be damned!"
Ladies laughed titteringly behind their fingers, and looked at one
another. Bill, feeling himself an elephant at a doll's tea-party,
stooped and let Luella step upon his hand.
"Hell of a note! I just can't stand this place! Not a soul worth
knowing. Ignorant——"
Bill mercifully squelched her with his hand pressing down her head
hard. He bit his lip, trying hard not to laugh right out in meeting, and
turned to make a dignified retreat of it, when a pair of human-
looking eyes in the crowd met his, and one lid drooped a bit.
Bill stopped short, took the second look to make sure, and turned
toward the wives and daughters of Parowan's leading citizens. He
grinned,—the old, Bill Dale smile in the face of discouragement, the
smile and the twinkle that had gone far to win him his nickname of
Hopeful Bill.
"Aw, shucks! You've all raised children that were brought out to act
pretty before company, I guess." His voice wheedled them. "They
generally wound up with a spanking after the company was gone,
didn't they? Well, we're in that fix right now. Luella's been and gone
and done it, just like any other kid. That's what I get for leaving her
with a—gentleman that keeps a saloon, while we were in California
for about a year. And—you've caught me with the goods, I guess. I
do cuss, now and then. Every time the baby tries to say something
else, I'm apt to holler, 'Doris, for so-and-so listen!' Luella's got it
down pat." He looked around at them with his Hopeful Bill smile. "I
hope I shut her off before she told that on me," he said.
They laughed, much relieved, glad of his example so that they dared
be human for a minute. Doris, with her perfect social manner, had
kept them stiff-backed and guarding their tongues. One old lady who
had been the wife of a governor and could afford to be herself on
that account, waved half a wafer at Bill imperiously.
"Don't take her away, whatever you do," she cried. "That would be a
confession of guilt. I wouldn't have a parrot that couldn't swear—or
a monkey that wouldn't steal the guests' earrings. Put her down and
let her cuss. It's about the only chance we'll ever get to hear how
men talk when we're not around."
Bill hesitated, until he caught the eye of Doris, over by the door.
Then he shook his head.
"My wife's trying to reform me before the baby's old enough to
repeat things," he said. "Luella's influence is considered bad enough
as it is. It would never do to encourage her. The custom is to shut
her in a dark closet whenever she speaks in an unrefined manner.
We hope to purify her speech before little Mary is old enough to
copy it."
He gave them all an endearing smile and carried Luella off. The
awkwardness of the situation was considerably relieved, and Doris
did her careful best to efface the memory of those last interrupted
remarks of Luella's. She hoped that no one had noticed how the
parrot's voice had changed, imitating her own tones. Luella never
learned that in the saloon, at least; there was enough to set the
ladies of Parowan thinking.
The ladies of Parowan did think—and they talked, as well. They had
felt all along, they said, that Bill Dale's wife held herself above the
rest of the town; though why she should was beyond their powers of
imagination. Everybody knew she was Don Hunter's girl,—
respectable enough, but nobody in particular, and certainly not rich.
Don had made some money out of Parowan, but they still ate in the
kitchen, and Mrs. Hunter didn't even keep a hired girl. And here was
Doris, trailing silken gowns over the polished floors, the Persian rugs
of the mansion on the hill, and speaking loftily of this servant and
that servant—by their last names—and bewailing the hardships of
living in Parowan and trying to entertain with no caterer in town and
cut flowers a practical impossibility on short notice or if the trains
happened to be late.
The ladies of Parowan descended to the satisfying luxury of speaking
their minds. Some of the minds harbored spite and malice and envy,
at that, and the things they said were not pleasant. It was fortunate
that the series of "at homes" which Doris had condescended to give
to the ladies in Parowan ended with what Bill unfeelingly dubbed
"Luella's party."
Five afternoons had been devoted to that memorable series. Twenty-
five women to an afternoon, and the house decorated differently
each day, and the prizes for the card games real, costly trifles such
as Mrs. Baker Cole and her set always gave. Parowan society would
have been content with a china plate or a doily for first prize, even
at the bridge table,—which was new to Parowan. Plain whist and five
hundred were the games usually played by the ladies of Parowan,
and Doris had overawed them, intimidated them even, with her
"bridge tables" ever since her arrival.
Her house-party from Santa Barbara and San Francisco, arriving in a
private car, twittering through the "camp" for a week and departing
as they had come, had impressed even the ex-governor's wife.
There had been a grand, house-warming ball, and the very elect of
Parowan had been permitted to attend it; but the house-party of
wealthy strangers had held themselves a bit aloof, and one woman
had been overheard to express her surprise and disappointment
because the natives had neglected to appear in red shirts and high
boots, with six-shooters dangling at their hips. Parowan hadn't quite
forgiven that, even yet.
But Doris had responded to the involuntary deference which
Parowan showed to the wife of Bill Dale. She had glowed secretly
with pride in the house Bill had built on the hillside. It was a
beautiful house; even her critical eye could find no flaw in its design,
in its perfect appointments. Bill had been building a dream into the
house. Love had gone into it, and a wistful longing for a home that
should dumbly express his love for Doris and for his child. Hope had
gone into the building of that house; the hope that Doris would love
it and would want to call it home.
He had visioned her standing at the great window that was set like
the frame of a picture into the west end of the long drawing-room.
The scene it framed each day was the sunset,—glorious sunsets
such as only the desert may know. A great window of flawless plate
glass, framing the far peaks that flamed each night anew.
In the eastern wall the mate to that window was set cunningly so
that it should frame a glory which Bill called dawn. Doris had never
seen that picture, though Bill seldom missed it. But he had dreamed
of her standing before the west window, looking upon the sunset.
He had dreamed of other pictures of Doris in that house. Once or
twice his heart had beat faster, believing that his dream was coming
true. For Doris had been stimulated by the praise of her guests of
the house-party. She had read in their faces a delight in this house
set upon the edge of the wilderness. A few had asked if they might
come back. So Doris was lingering in Parowan and playing great lady
to the town,—and dramatizing herself to herself, with her California
acquaintances for an imaginary audience. She had seen that they
expected her to love the desert. Wherefore, she was professing to
love the desert and the town, and to dread tearing herself away at
the first frost. She meant to have her friends over again, she
declared. She had thought of a perfectly original bit of fun for them.
She would dress them all in miners' clothes and lead them right
down into the mine, and let each one dig some gold for a souvenir.
She wrote of this to Mrs. Baker Cole, who told her it was a wonderful
idea.
And now, here were the Parowan women gossiping about that
wretched parrot. Doris did not need to hear what they were saying,
in order to be sure that they were talking. She felt a difference in
their attitude; thinly veiled resentment—and some sentiments which
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