V
There remained in Bob's initial Southern California experience one moreepisode that brought him an acquaintance, apparently casual, but whichlater was to influence him.
Of an afternoon he walked up Main Street idly and alone. The exhibit ofa real estate office attracted him. Over the door, in place of a sign,hung a huge stretched canvas depicting not too rudely a widecountry-side dotted with model farms of astounding prosperity. Thewindow was filled with pumpkins, apples, oranges, sheaves of wheat,bottles full of soft fruits preserved in alcohol, and the like. Asbackground was an oil painting in which the Lucky Lands occupied aspacious pervading foreground, while in clever perspectives the CoastRange, the foothills, and the other cities of the San Fernando Valleysupplied a modest setting. This was usual enough.
At the door stood a very alert man with glasses. He scrutinized closelyevery passerby. Occasionally he hailed one or the other, conversedearnestly a brief instant, and passed them inside. Gradually it dawnedon Bob that this man was acting in the capacity of "barker"--that withquite admirable perspicacity and accuracy, he was engaged in selectingfrom the countless throngs the few possible purchasers for Lucky Lands.Curious to see what attraction was offered to induce this unanimity ofacquiescence to the barker's invitation, the young man approached.
"What's going on?" he asked.
The barker appraised him with one sweeping glance.
"Stereopticon lecture inside," he snapped, and turned his back.
Bob made his way into a dimly lighted hall. At one end was a slightlyelevated platform above which the white screen was suspended. Moreagricultural products supplied the decorations. The body of the hall wasfilled with folding chairs, about half of which were occupied. Perhaps adozen attendants tiptoed here and there. A successful attempt waseverywhere made to endow with high importance all the proceedings andappurtenances of the Lucky Land Co.
Bob slipped into a chair. Immediately a small pasteboard ticket and afountain pen were thrust into his hand.
"Sign your name and address on this," the man whispered.
Bob held it up, the better to see what it was.
"All these tickets are placed in a hat," explained the man, "and one isdrawn. The lucky ticket gets a free ride to Lucky on one of our weeklyhomeseekers' excursions. Others pay one fare for round trip."
"I see," said Bob, signing, "and in return you get the names andaddresses of every one here."
He glanced up at his interlocutor with a quizzical expression thatchanged at once to one of puzzlement. Where had he seen the man before?He was, perhaps, fifty-five years old, tall and slender, slightlystooped, slightly awry. His lean gray face was deeply lined, hisclose-clipped moustache and hair were gray, and his eyes twinkled behindhis glasses with a cold gray light. Something about these glasses struckfaintly a chord of memory in Bob's experience, but he could not catchits modulations. The man, on his side, stared at Bob a trifleuncertainly. Then he held the card up to the dim light.
"You are interested in Lucky Lands--Mr. John Smith, of Reno?" he asked,stooping low to be heard.
"Sure!" grinned Bob.
The man said nothing more, but glided away, and in a moment the flare oflight on the screen announced that the lecture was to begin.
The lecturer, was a glib, self-possessed youth, filled to the brim withstatistics, with which he literally overwhelmed his auditors. Hisremarks were accompanied by a rapid-fire snapping of fingers to the timeof which the operator changed his slides. A bewildering succession ofcoloured views flashed on the screen. They showed Lucky in all itsglories--the blacksmith shop, the main street, the new hotel, thegrocery, Brown's walnut ranch, the ditch, the Southern Pacific Depot,the Methodist Church and a hundred others. So quickly did they succeedeach other that no one had time to reduce to the terms of experience thescenes depicted on these slides--for with the glamour of exaggeratedcolour, of unaccustomed presentation, and of skillful posing the mostcommonplace village street seems wonderful and attractive for themoment. The lecturer concluded by an alarming statement as to therapidity with which this desirable ranching property was being snappedup. He urged early decisions as the only safe course; and, as usual withall real estate men, called attention to the contrast between theRiverside of twenty years ago and the Riverside of to-day.
The daylight was then admitted.
"Now, gentlemen," concluded the lecturer, still in his brisk,time-saving style, "the weekly excursion to Lucky will take placeto-morrow. One fare both ways to homeseekers. Free carriages to theLands. Grand free open-air lunch under the spreading sycamores and bythe babbling brook. Train leaves at seven-thirty."
In full sight of all he threw the packet of tickets into a hat and drewone.
"Mr. John Smith, of Reno," he read. "Who is Mr. Smith?"
"Here," said Bob.
"Would you like to go to Lucky to-morrow?"
"Sure," said Bob.
One of the attendants immediately handed Bob a railroad ticket. Thelecturer had already disappeared.
To his surprise Bob found the street door locked.
"This way," urged one of the salesmen. "You go out this way."
He and the rest of the audience were passed out another door in therear, where they were forced to go through the main offices of theCompany. Here were stationed the gray man and all his youngerassistants. Bob paused by the door. He could not but admire the acumenof the barker in selecting his men. The audience was made up of just thetype of those who come to California with agricultural desires and a fewhundred dollars--slow plodders from Eastern farms, Italians with savingsand ambitions, half invalids--all the element that crowds the touristsleepers day in and day out, the people who are filling the odd cornersof the greater valleys. As these debouched into the glare of the outeroffices, they hesitated, making up their slow minds which way to turn.In that instant or so the gray man, like a captain, assigned hissalesmen. The latter were of all sorts--fat and joking, thin and veryserious-minded, intense, enthusiastic, cold and haughty. The gray mansized up his prospective customers and to each assigned a salesman tosuit. Bob had no means of guessing how accurate these estimates mightbe, but they were evidently made intelligently, with some systemcompounded of theory or experience. After a moment Bob became consciousthat he himself was being sharply scrutinized by the gray man, and inreturn watched covertly. He saw the gray man shake his head slightly.Bob passed out the door unaccosted by any of the salesmen.
At half-past seven the following morning he boarded the local train. Inone car he found a score of "prospects" already seated, accompanied byhalf their number of the young men of the real estate office. The utmostjocularity and humour prevailed, except in one corner where a veryearnest young man drove home the points of his argument with animpressive forefinger. Bob dropped unobtrusively into a seat, andprepared to enjoy his never-failing interest in the California landscapewith its changing wonderful mountains; its alternations of sage brushand wide cultivation; its vineyards as far as the eye could distinguishthe vines; its grainfields seeming to fill the whole cup of the valleys;its orchards wide as forests; and its desert stretches, bigger than themall, awaiting but the vivifying touch of water to burst intoproductiveness. He heard one of the salesmen expressing this.
"'Water is King,'" he was saying, quoting thus the catchword of thisparticular concern. He was talking in a half-joking way, asking one orthe other how many inches of rainfall could be expected per annum backwhere they came from.
"Don't know, do you?" he answered himself. "Nobody pays any great andparticular amount of attention to that--you get water enough, except inexceptional years. Out here it's different. Every one knows to thehundredth of an inch just how much rain has fallen, and how much oughtto have fallen. It's vital. Water is King."
He gathered close the attention of his auditors.
"We have the water in California," he went on; "but it isn't always inthe right place nor does it come at the right time. You can't grow cropsin the high mountains where most of the prec
ipitation occurs. But youcan bring that water down to the plains. That's your answer:irrigation."
He looked from one to the other. Several nodded.
"But a man can't irrigate by himself. He can't build reservoirs, ditchesall alone. That's where a concern like the Lucky Company makes good.We've brought the water to where you can use it. Under the influence ofcultivation that apparently worthless land can produce--" he went on atgreat length detailing statistics of production. Even to Bob, who had novital nor practical interest, it was all most novel and convincing.
So absorbed did he become that he was somewhat startled when a man satdown beside him. He looked, up to meet the steel gray eyes andglittering glasses of the chief. Again there swept over him a sense offamiliarity, the feeling that somewhere, at some time, he had met thisman before. It passed almost as quickly as it came, but left himpuzzled.
"Of course your name is not Smith, nor do you come from Reno," said theman in gray abruptly. "I've seen you somewhere before, but I can't placeyou. Are you a newspaperman?"
"I've been thinking the same of you," returned Bob. "No, I'm just plaintourist."
"I don't imagine you're particularly interested in Lucky," said the grayman. "Why did you come?"
"Just idleness and curiosity," replied Bob frankly.
"Of course we try to get the most value in return for our expenditureson these excursions by taking men who are at least interested in thecountry," suggested the gray man.
"By Jove, I never thought of that!" cried Bob. "Of course, I'd nobusiness to take that free ticket. I'll pay you my fare."
The gray man had been scrutinizing him intensely and keenly. At Bob'scomically contrite expression, his own face cleared.
"No, you misunderstand me," he replied in his crisp fashion. "We givethese excursions as an advertisement of what we have. The more people toknow about Lucky, the better our chances. We made an offer of which youhave taken advantage. You're perfectly welcome, and I hope you'll enjoyyourself. Here, Selwyn," he called to one of the salesman, "this isMr.--what did you say your name is?"
"Orde," replied Bob.
The gray man seemed for an almost imperceptible instant to stiffen inhis seat. The gray eyes glazed over; the gray lined face froze.
"Orde," he repeated harshly; "where from?"
"Michigan," Bob replied.
The gray man rose stiffly. "Well, Selwyn," said he, "this is Mr.Orde--of Michigan--and I want you to show him around."
He moved down the aisle to take a seat, distant, but facing the twoyoung men. Bob felt himself the object of a furtive but minute scrutinywhich lasted until the train slowed down at the outskirts of Lucky.
Selwyn proved to be an agreeable young man, keen-faced, clean-cut, fullof energy and enthusiasm. He soon discovered that Bob did notcontemplate going into ranching, and at once admitted that young man tohis confidence.
"You just nail a seat in that surrey over there, while I chase out mytwo 'prospects.' We sell on commission and I've got to rustle."
They drove out of the sleepy little village on which had been graftedshowy samples of the Company's progress. The day was beautiful withsunshine, with the mellow calls of meadow larks, with warmth and sweetodours. As the surrey took its zigzag way through the brush, as thequail paced away to right and left, as the delicate aroma of the sagerose to his nostrils, Bob began to be very glad he had come. Here andthere the brush had been cleared, small shacks built, fences of wirestrung, and the land ploughed over. At such places the surrey pausedwhile Selwyn held forth to his two stolid "prospects" on how long thesenewcomers had been there and how well they were getting on. The countryrose in a gradual slope to the slate-blue mountains. Ditches ran hereand there. Everywhere were small square stakes painted white, indicatingthe boundaries of tracts yet unsold.
They visited the reservoir, which looked to Bob uncommonly like a muddyduck pond, but whose value Selwyn soon made very clear. They wanderedthrough the Chiquito ranch, whence came the exhibition fruit and otherproducts, and which formed the basis of most Lucky arguments. The ownerhad taken many medals for his fruit, and had spent twenty-five years inmaking the Chiquito a model.
"Any man can do likewise in this land of promise," said Selwyn.
They ended finally in a beautiful little canon among the foothills. Itwas grown thick with twisted, mottled sycamores just budding into leaf,with vines and greenery of the luxurious California varieties. Birdssang everywhere and a brook babbled and bubbled down a stony bed.
Under the largest of the sycamores a tent had been pitched and a tablespread. Affairs seemed to be in charge of a very competent countrywomanwhose fuzzy horse and ramshackle buggy stood securely tethered below.The surries drove up and deposited their burdens. Bob took his place attable to be served with an abundant, hot and well-cooked meal.
The ice had been broken. Everybody laughed and joked. Some of the menremoved their coats in order to be more comfortable. The young salesmenhad laboured successfully to bring these strangers to a feeling ofpartnership in at least the aims of the Company, of partisanship againstthe claims of other less-favoured valleys than Lucky. During a pause inthe fun, one of the "prospects," an elderly, white-whiskered farmer ofthe more prosperous type, nodded toward the brook.
"That sounds good," said he.
"It's the supply for the Lucky Lands," replied Selwyn. "It ought tosound good."
"There's mighty few flowing creeks in California this far out from themountains," interposed another salesman. "You know out here, except inthe rainy season, the rivers all flow bottom-up."
They all guffawed at this ancient and mild joke. The old farmer waggedhis head.
"Water is King," said he solemnly, as though voicing an original andprofound thought.
A look of satisfaction overspread the countenance of the particularsalesman who had the old farmer in charge. When you can get your"prospect" to adopt your catchword and enunciate it with conviction, heis yours!
After the meal Bob, unnoticed, wandered off up the canon. He hadascertained that the excursionists would not leave the spot for twohours yet, and he welcomed the chance for exercise. Accordingly he sethimself to follow the creek, the one stream of pure and limpid waterthat did not flow bottom-up. At first this was easy enough, but after awhile the canon narrowed, and Bob found himself compelled to clamberover rocks and boulders, to push his way through thickets of brush andclinging vines, finally even to scale a precipitous and tangled sidehill over which the stream fell in a series of waterfalls. Once pastthis obstruction, however, the country widened again. Bob stood in thebed of a broad, flat wash flanked by low hills. Before him, and stillsome miles distant, rose the mountains in which the stream found itssource.
Bob stood still for a moment, his hat in his hand, enjoying the tepidodours, the warm sun and the calls of innumerable birds. Then he becameaware of a faint and intermittent throb--_put-put_ (pause) _put_(pause), _put-put-put!_
"Gasoline engine," said he to himself.
He tramped a few hundred yards up the dry wash, rounded a bend, and cameto a small wooden shack from which emanated the sound of the gasexplosions. A steady stream of water gushed from a pump operated by thegasoline engine. Above, the stream bed was dry. Here was the origin ofthe "beautiful mountain stream."
Chair-tilted in front of the shack sat a man smoking a pipe. He lookedup as Bob approached.
"Hullo," said he; "show over?"
He disappeared inside and shut off the gasoline engine. Immediately theflow ceased; the stream dried up as though scorched. Presently the manemerged, thrusting his hands into the armholes of an old coat. Shruggingthe garment into place, he snapped shut the padlock on the door.
"Come on," said he. "My rig's over behind that grease-wood. You're anew one, ain't ye?"
Bob nodded.
"That horse is branded pretty thick," he said by way of diversion.
The man chuckled.
"Have to turn his skin other side out to get another one on," he agreed.
T
hey drove down an old dim road that avoided the difficulties of thecanon. At camp they found the surries just loading up. Bob took hisplace. Before the rigs started back, the gray man, catching sight of thepump man, drew him aside and said several things very vigorously. Thepump man answered with some indignation, pointing finally to Bob.Instantly the gray man whirled to inspect the young fellow. Then he shota last remark, turned and climbed grumpily into his vehicle.
At the station Bob tried to draw Selwyn aside for a conversation.
"I'll be with you when the train starts, old man," replied Selwyn, "butI've got to stick close to these prospects. There's a gang of knockershanging around here always, just waiting for a chance to lip in."
When the train started, however, Selwyn came back to drop into Bob'sseat with a wearied sigh.
"Gosh! I get sick of handing out dope to these yaps," said he. "I wasafraid for a while it was going to blow. Looked like it."
"What of it?" asked Bob.
"When it blows up here, it'd lift the feathers off a chicken and thechicken off the earth," explained Selwyn. "I've seen more than one goodprospect ruined by a bad day."
"How'd you come out?" inquired Bob.
"Got one. He handed over his first payment on the spot. Funny how theseyahoos almost always bring their cash right with 'em. Other's no good. Iget so I can spot that kind the first three words. They're always tooblame enthusiastic about the country and the Company. Seems like theytry to pay for their entertainment by jollying us along. Don't fool meany. When a man begins to object to things, you know he's thinking ofbuying."
Bob listened to this wisdom with some amusement. "How'd you explain whenthe stream stopped?" he asked.
"Why," said Selwyn, looking straight ahead, "didn't you hear Mr. Oldham?They turned the water into the Upper Ditch to irrigate the FoothillTracts."
Bob laughed. "You're not much of a liar, Selwyn," he said pleasantly."Failure of gasoline would hit it nearer."
"Oh, that's where you went," said Selwyn. "I ought to have kept my eyeon you closer."
He fell silent, and Bob eyed him speculatively. He liked the youngfellow's clear, frank cast of countenance.
"Look here, Selwyn," he broke out, "do you like this bunco game?"
"I don't like the methods," replied Selwyn promptly; "but you aremistaken when you think it's a bunco game. The land is good; there'splenty of artesian water to be had; and we don't sell at a fancy price.We've located over eight hundred families up there at Lucky Lands, andthree out of four are making good. The fourth simply hadn't the capitalto hold out until returns came in. It's as good a small-ranchproposition as they could find. If I didn't think so, I wouldn't be init for a minute."
"How about that stream?"
"Nobody said the stream was a natural one. And the water exists, nomatter where it comes from. You can't impress an Eastern farmer with apump proposition: that's a matter of education. They come to see itsvalue after they've tried it."
"But your--".
"I told you I didn't like the methods. I won't have anything to do withthe dirty work, and Oldham knows it."
"Why all the bluff, then?" asked Bob.
"There are thousands of real estate firms in Los Angeles trying to sellmillions of acres," said Selwyn, "and this is about the only concernthat succeeds in colonizing on a large scale. Oldham developed thissystem, and it seems to work."
"The law'll get him some day."
"I think not," replied Selwyn. "You may find him close to the edge ofthe law, but he never steps over. He's a mighty bright business man, andhe's made a heap of money."
When nearing the Arcade depot, Oldham himself stepped forward.
"Stopping in California long?" he asked, with some approach togeniality.
"Permanently, I think," replied Bob.
"You are going to manufacture your timber?"
Bob looked up astonished.
"You're the Orde interested in Granite County timber, aren't you?"
"I'm employed by Welton, that's all," said Bob. "He owns the timber. Buthow did you know I am with Welton?" he asked.
"With Welton!" echoed Oldham. "Oh, yes--well, I heard from Michiganbusiness acquaintances you were with him. Welton's lands are in GraniteCounty?"
"Yes," said Bob.
"Well," said Oldham vaguely, "I hope you have enjoyed your littleouting." He turned away.
"Now, how the deuce should anybody know about me, or that I am withWelton, or take the trouble to write about it?"
He mulled over this for some time. For lack of a better reason, heascribed to his former football prominence the fact that Oldham'sMichigan correspondent had thought him worth mention. Yet that seemedabsurdly inadequate.
PART THREE