I
On a wintry and blustering evening in the latter part of February, 1902,
Welton and Bob boarded the Union Pacific train en route for California.
They distributed their hand baggage, then promptly took their way
forward to the buffet car, where they disposed themselves in the
leather-and-wicker armchairs for a smoke. At this time of year the
travel had fallen off somewhat in volume. The westward tourist rush had
slackened, and the train was occupied only by those who had definite
business in the Land of Promise, and by that class of wise ones who
realize that an Eastern March and April are more to be avoided than the
regulation winter months. The smoking car contained then but a
half-dozen men.
Welton and Bob took their places and lit their cigars. The train swayed
gently along, its rattle muffled by the storm. Polished black squares
represented the windows across which drifted hazy lights and ghostlike
suggestions of snowflakes. Bob watched this ebony nothingness in great
idleness of spirit. Presently one of the half-dozen men arose from his
place, walked the length of the car, and dropped into the next chair.
"You're Bob Orde, aren't you?" he remarked without preliminary.
Bob looked up. He saw before him a very heavy-set young man, of medium
height, possessed of a full moon of a face, and alert brown eyes.
"I thought so," went on this young man in answer to Bob's assent. "I'm
Baker of '93. You wouldn't know me; I was before your time. But I know
you. Seen you play. Headed for the Sunshine and Flowers?"
"Yes," said Bob.
"Ever been there before?"
"No."
"Great country! If you listen to all the come-on stuff you may be
disappointed--at first."
"How's that?" asked Bob, highly amused. "Isn't the place what it's
cracked up to be?"
"It's more," asserted Baker, "but not the same stuff. The climate's
bully--best little old climate they've made, up to date--but it's got to
rain once in a while; and the wind's got to blow; and all that. If you
believe the Weather in the Old Home column, you'll be sore. In two years
you'll be sore, anyway, whenever it does anything but stand 55 at night,
72 at noon and shine like the spotlight on the illustrated songster. If
a Californian sees a little white cloud about as big as a toy balloon
down in the southeast corner he gets morose as a badger. If it starts to
drizzle what you'd call a light fog he holes up. When it rains he
hibernates like a bear, and the streets look like one of these populous
and thriving Aztec metropoli you see down Sonora way. I guess every man
is privileged to get just about so sore on the weather wherever he
is--and does so."
"You been out there long?" asked Bob.
"Ever since I graduated," returned Baker promptly, "and I wouldn't live
anywhere else. They're doing real things. Don't you run away with any
notions of _dolce far nientes_ or tropical languor. This California gang
is strictly on the job. The bunch seated under the spreading banana tree
aren't waiting for the ripe fruit to drop in their mouths. That's in the
First Reader and maybe somewhere down among the Black and Tans--"
"Black and Tans?" interrupted Bob with a note of query.
"Yep. Oilers--greasers--Mexicans--hidalgos of all kinds from here to the
equator," explained Baker. "No, sir, that gang under the banana tree are
either waiting there to sandbag the next tourist and sell him some real
estate before he comes to, or else they're figuring on uprooting said
piffling shrub and putting up an office building. Which part of the
country are you going to?"
"Near White Oaks," said Bob.
"No abalone shells for yours, eh?" remarked Baker cryptically. He
glanced at Welton. "Where's your timber located?" he asked.
"Near Granite," replied Bob;--"why, how the devil did you know we were
out for timber?"
"'How did the Master Mind solve that problem?'" asked Baker. "Ah, that's
my secret!"
"No, that doesn't go," said Bob. "I insist on knowing; and what was that
abalone shell remark?"
"Abalone shells--tourists," capitulated Baker; "also Mexican drawn work,
bead belts, burned leather, fake turquoise and ostrich eggs. Sabe?"
"Sure. But why not a tourist?"
"Tourist--in White Oaks!" cried Baker. "Son, White Oaks raises raisins
and peaches and apricots and figs and such things in quantities to
stagger you. It is a nice, well-built city, and well conducted, and full
of real estate boards and chambers of commerce. But it is not framed up
for tourists, and it knows it. Not at 100 degrees Fahrenheit 'most all
summer, and a chill and solemn land fog 'most all winter."
"Well, why timber?" demanded Bob.
"My dear Watson," said Baker, indicating Mr. Welton, who grinned. "Does
your side partner resemble a raisin raiser? Has he the ear marks of a
gentle agriculturist? Would you describe him as a typical sheepman, or
as a daring and resolute bee-keeper?"
Bob shook his head, still unconvinced.
"Well, if you will uncover my dark methods," sighed Baker. He leaned
over and deftly abstracted from the breast pocket of Bob's coat a long,
narrow document. "You see the top of this stuck out in plain sight. To
the intelligent eye instructed beyond the second grade of our excellent
school system the inscription cannot be mistaken." He held it around for
Bob to see. In plain typing the document was endorsed as follows:
"Granite County Timber Lands."
"My methods are very subtle," said Baker, laughing. "I find it difficult
to explain them. Come around sometime and I'll pick it out for you on
the piano."
"Where are you going?" asked Bob in his turn.
"Los Angeles, on business."
"On business?--or just buying abalone shells?"
"It takes a millionaire or an Iowa farmer to be a tourist," replied
Baker.
"What are you doing?"
"Supporting an extravagant wife, I tell Mrs. Baker. You want to get down
that way. The town's a marvel. It's grown from thirty thousand to two
hundred thousand in twenty years; it has enough real estate subdivisions
to accommodate eight million; it has invented the come-on house built by
the real estate agents to show how building is looking up at
Lonesomehurst; it has two thousand kinds of architecture--all different;
it has more good stuff and more fake stuff than any place on earth--it's
a wonder. Come on down and I'll show you the high buildings."
He chatted for a few moments, then rose abruptly and disappeared down
the aisle toward the sleeping cars without the formality of a farewell.
Welton had been listening amusedly, and puffing away at his cigar in
silence.
"Well," said he when Baker had gone. "How do you like your friend?"
"He's certainly amusing," laughed Bob, "and mighty good company. That
sort of a fellow is lots of fun. I've seen them many times coming back
at initiation or Commencement. They are great heroes to the kids."
"But not to any one else?" inquired Welton.
"Well--that's about it," Bob hesitated. "They're awfully good fellows,
and see the joke, and jolly things up; but they somehow don't amount to
much."
"Wouldn't think much of the scheme of trying Baker as woods foreman up
in our timber, then?" suggested Welton.
"Him? Lord, no!" said Bob, surprised.
Welton threw back his head and laughed heartily, in great salvos.
"Ho! ho! ho!" he shouted. "Oh, Bobby, I wish any old Native Son could be
here to enjoy this joke with me. Ho! ho! ho! ho!"
The coloured porter stuck his head in to see what this tremendous
rolling noise might be, grinned sympathetically, and withdrew.
"What's the matter with you!" cried Bob, exasperated. "Shut up, and be
sensible."
Welton wiped his eyes.
"That, son, is Carleton P. Baker. Just say Carleton P. Baker to a
Californian."
"Well, I can't, for four days, anyway. Who is he?"
"Didn't find out from him, for all his talk, did you?" said Welton
shrewdly. "Well, Baker, as he told you, graduated from college in '93.
He came to California with about two thousand dollars of capital and no
experience. He had the sense to go in for water rights, and here he is!"
"Marvellous!" cried Bob sarcastically. "But what is he now that he is
here?"
"Head of three of the biggest power projects in California," said Welton
impressively, "and controller of more potential water power than any
other man or corporation in the state."
Welton enjoyed his joke hugely. After Bob had turned in, the big man
parted the curtains to his berth.
"Oh, Bob," he called guardedly.
"What!" grunted the young man, half-asleep.
"Who do you think we'd better get for woods foreman just _in case_
Baker shouldn't take the job?"