Bob went on to Los Angeles with the sprightly Baker. At first glance the
city seemed to him like any other. Then, as he wandered its streets, the
marvel and vigour and humour of the place seized on him.
"Don't you suppose I see the joke?" complained Baker at the end of one
of their long trolley rides. "Just get onto that house; it looks like a
mission-style switch engine. And the one next to it, built to shed snow.
Funny! sure it's funny. But you ain't talking to me! It's alive! Those
fellows wanted something different from anybody else--so does everybody.
After they'd used up the regular styles, they had to make 'em up out of
the fresh air. But anyway, they weren't satisfied just to copy Si
Golosh's idea of a Noah's Ark chicken coop."
They stopped opposite very elaborate and impressive iron gates opening
across a graded street. These gates were supported by a pair of stone
towers crowned with tiles. A smaller pair of towers and gates guarded
the concrete sidewalk. As a matter of fact, all these barriers enclosed
nothing, for even in the remote possibility that the inquiring visitor
should find them shut, an insignificant detour would circumvent their
fenceless flanks.
"Maudsley Court," Bob read sculptured on one of the towers.
"That makes this particular subdivision mighty exclusive," grinned
Baker. "Now if you were a homeseeker wouldn't you love to bring your
dinner pail back to the cawstle every night?"
Bob peered down the single street. It was graded, guttered and
sidewalked. A small sentry box labelled "office," and inscribed with
glowing eulogiums, occupied a strategic position near the gates. From
this house Bob immediately became aware of close scrutiny by a man half
concealed by the indoor dimness.
"The spider," said Baker. "He's onto us big as a house. He can spot a
yap at four hundred yards' range, and you bet they don't get much nearer
than that alone."
A huge sign shrieked of Maudsley Court. "Get a grin!" was its first
advice.
"They all try for a catchword--every one of 'em," explained Baker.
"You'll see all kinds in the ads; some pretty good, most of 'em rotten."
"They seem to have made a start, anyway," observed Bob, indicating a new
cottage half way down the street. It was a super-artistic structure,
exhibiting the ends of huge brown beams at all points. Baker laughed.
"That's what it's intended to seem," said he. "That's the come-on house.
It's built by the spider. It's stick-um for the flies. 'This is going to
be a high-brow proposition,' says the intending purchaser; 'look at the
beautiful house already up. I must join this young and thriving colony.'
Hence this settled look."
He waved his hand abroad. Dotted over the low, rounded hills of the
charming landscapes were new and modern bungalows. They were spaced
widely, and each was flanked by an advertising board and guarded by a
pair of gates shutting their private thoroughfares from the country
highways. Between them showed green the new crops.
"Nine out of ten come-on houses," said Baker, "and all exclusive. If you
can't afford iron gates, you can at least put up a pair of shingled
pillars. It's the game."
"Will these lots ever be sold?" asked Bob.
"Out here, yes," replied Baker. "That's part of the joke. The methods
are on the blink, but the goods insist on delivering themselves. Most of
these fellows are just bunks or optimists. All hands are surprised when
things turn out right. But if _all_ the lots are ever sold, Los Angeles
will have a population of five million."
They boarded an inward-bound trolley. Bob read the devices as they
flashed past. "Hill-top Acres," he read near a street plastered against
an apparently perpendicular hill. "Buy before the rise!" advised this
man's rival at its foot. The true suburbs strung by in a panorama of
strange little houses--imitation Swiss chalets jostling bastard Moorish,
cobblestones elbowing plaster--a bewildering succession of forced
effects. Baker caught Bob's expression.
"These are workingmen's and small clerks' houses," he said quietly.
"Pretty bad, eh? But they're trying. Remember what they lived in back
East."
Bob recalled the square, painted, ugly, featureless boxes built all
after the same pattern of dreariness. He looked on this gay bewilderment
of bad taste with more interest.
"At least they're taking notice," said Baker, lighting his pipe. "And
every fellow raises _some_ kind of posies."
A few moments later they plunged into the vortex of the city and the
smiling country, the far plains toward the sea, and the circle of the
mountains were lost. Only remained overhead the blue of the California
sky.
Baker led the way toward a blaring basement restaurant.
"I'm beginning to feel that I'll have to find some monkey-food
somewhere, or cash in," said he.
They found a table and sat down.
"This is the place to see all the sights," proffered Baker, his broad
face radiating satisfaction. "When they strike it rich on the desert,
they hike right in here. That fat lady thug yonder is worth between
three and four millions. Eight months ago she did washing at two bits a
shirt while her husband drove a one-man prospect shaft. The other day
she blew into the big jewelry store and wanted a thirty-thousand-dollar
diamond necklace. The boss rolled over twice and wagged his tail. 'Yes,
madam,' said he; 'what kind?' 'I dunno; just a thirty-thousand-dollar
one.' That's all he could get out of her. 'But tell me how you want 'em
set,' he begged. She looked bewildered. _'Oh, set 'em so they'll
jingle,'_ says she."
After the meal they walked down the principal streets, watching the
crowd. It was a large crowd, as though at busy midday, and variously
apparelled, from fur coat to straw hat. Each extreme of costume seemed
justified, either by the balmy summer-night effect of the California
open air, or by the hint of chill that crept from the distant mountains.
Either aspect could be welcomed or ignored by a very slight effort of
the will. Electric signs blazed everywhere. Bob was struck by the
numbers of clairvoyants, palm readers, Hindu frauds, crazy cults, fake
healers, Chinese doctors, and the like thus lavishly advertised. The
class that elsewhere is pressed by necessity to the inexpensive
dinginess of back streets, here blossomed forth in truly tropical
luxuriance. Street vendors with all sorts of things, from mechanical
toys to spot eradicators, spread their portable lay-outs at every
corner. Vacant lots were crowded with spielers of all sorts--religious
or political fanatics, vendors of cure-alls, of universal tools, of
marvelous axle grease, of anything and everything to catch the idle
dollar. Brilliantly lighted shops called the passer-by to contemplate
the latest wavemotor, flying machine, door check, or what-not. Stock in
these enterprises was for sale--and was being sold! Other sidewalk
booths, like those ordinarily used as dispensaries of hot doughnuts and
coffee, offered wild-cat mining shares, oil stock and real estate in
some highly speculative suburb. Great stores of curios lay open to the
tourist trade. Here one could buy sheepskin Indian moccasins made in
Massachusetts, or abalone shells, or burnt-leather pillows, or a whole
collection of photographic views so minute that they could all be packed
in a single walnut shell. Next door were shops of Japanese and Chinese
goods presided over by suave, sleepy-eyed Orientals, in wonderful
brocade, wearing the close cap with the red coral button atop. Shooting
galleries spit spitefully. Gasolene torches flared.
Baker strolled along, his hands in his pockets, his hat on the back of
his head. From time to time he cast an amused glance at his companion.
"Come in here," he said abruptly.
Bob found himself comfortably seated in a commodious open-air theatre,
watching an excellent vaudeville performance. He enjoyed it thoroughly,
for it was above the average. In fifteen minutes, however, the last
soubrette disappeared in the wings to the accompaniment of a swirl of
music. Her place was taken by a tall, facetious-looking, bald
individual, clad in a loose frock coat. He held up his hand for silence.
"Ladies 'n' gentlemen," he drawled, "we hope you have enjoyed
yourselves. If you find a better show than this in any theatre in town,
barring the Orpheum, come and tell us about it and we will see what we
can do to brace ours up. I don't believe you can. This show will be
repeated every afternoon and evening, with complete change of programme
twice a week. Go away and tell your friends about the great free show
down on Spring Street. Just tell them about it."
Bob glanced startled at his companion. Baker was grinning.
"This show has cost us up to date," went on the leisurely drawl, "just
twenty-eight hundred dollars. Go and tell your friends that. _But_"--he
suddenly straightened his figure and his voice became more
incisive--"that is not enough. We have decided to give you something
_real_ to talk about. We have decided to give every man, woman and child
in this vast audience a first-night present of Two Silver Dollars!"
Bob could feel an electric thrill run through the crowd, and every one
sat up a little straighter in his chair.
"Let me see," the orator went on, running his eye over the audience. He
had resumed his quieter manner. "There are perhaps seven hundred people
present. That would make fourteen hundred dollars. By the way, John,"
he addressed some one briskly. "Close the gates and lock them. We don't
want anybody in on this who didn't have interest enough in our show to
come in the first place." He winked humorously at the crowd, and several
laughed.
"Pretty rotten, eh?" whispered Baker admiringly. "Fixed 'em so they
won't bolt when the show's over and before he works off his dope."
"These Two Silver Dollars, which I want you all to get, are in these
hampers. Six little boys will distribute them. Come up, boys, and get
each a hatful of dollars." The six solemnly marched up on the stage and
busied themselves with the hampers. "While we are waiting," went on the
orator, "I will seize the opportunity to present to you the world-famed
discoverer of that wonderful anaesthetic, Oxodyne, Painless Porter."
At the words a dapper little man in immaculately correct evening dress,
and carrying a crush hat under his arm, stepped briskly from the wings.
He was greeted by wild but presumably manufactured applause. He bowed
rigidly from the hips, and at once began to speak in a high and nasal
but extremely penetrating voice.
"As far as advertising is concerned," he began without preamble, "it is
entirely unnecessary that I give this show. There is no man, woman or
child in this marvellous commonwealth of ours who is not familiar with
the name of Painless Porter, whether from the daily papers, the
advertising boards, the street cars, or the elegant red brougham in
which I traverse your streets. My work for you is my best advertisement.
It is unnecessary from that point of view that I spend this money for
this show, or that this extra money should be distributed among you by
my colleague, Wizard Walker, the Medical Marvel of Modern Times."
The tall man paused from his business with the hampers and the six boys
to bow in acknowledgment.
"No, ladies 'n' gentlemen, my purpose is higher. In the breast of each
human being is implanted an instinctive fear of Pain. It sits on us like
a nightmare, from the time we first come to consciousness of our
surroundings. It is a curse of humanity, like drink, and he who can
lighten that curse is as much of a philanthropist as George W. Childs or
Andrew Carnegie. I want you to go away and talk about me. It don't
matter what you say, just so you say something. You can call me quack,
you may call me fakir, you may call me charlatan--but be sure to call me
SOMETHING! Then slowly the news will spread abroad that Pain is
banished, and I can smile in peace, knowing that my vast expenditures of
time and money have not been in vain, and that I have been a benefit to
humanity. Wizard Walker, the Medical Marvel of Modern Times, will now
attend to the distribution, after which I will pull a few teeth gratis
in order to demonstrate to you the wonderful merits of Oxodyne."
"A dentist!" gasped Bob.
"Yup," said Baker. "Not much gasoline-torch-on-the-back-lot in his, is
there?"
Bob was hardly surprised, after much preamble and heightening of
suspense, to find that the Two Silver Dollars turned out finally to be a
pink ticket and a blue ticket, "good respectively at the luxurious
offices for one dollar's worth of dental and medical attention FREE."
Nor was he more than slightly astounded when the back drop rose to show
the stage set glitteringly with nickel-mounted dentist chairs and their
appurtenances, with shining glass, white linen, and with a chorus of
fascinating damsels dressed as trained nurses and standing rigidly at
attention. Then entered Painless himself, in snowy shirt-sleeves and
serious professional preoccupation. Volunteers came up two by two.
Painless explained obscurely the scientific principles on which the
marvelous Oxodyne worked--by severing temporarily but entirely all
communication between the nerves and the brain. Then much business with
a very glittering syringe.
"My lord," chuckled Baker, "if he fills that thing up, it'll drown
her!"
In an impressive silence Painless flourished the forceps, planted
himself square in front of his patient, heaved a moment, and
triumphantly held up in full view an undoubted tooth. The trained nurses
offered rinses. After a moment the patient, a roughly dressed country
woman, arose to her feet. She was smiling broadly, and said something,
which the audience could not hear. Painless smiled indulgently.
"Speak up so they can all hear you," he encouraged her.
"Never hurt a bit," the woman stammered.
Three more operations were conducted as expeditiously and as
successfully. The audience was evidently impressed.
"How does he do it?" whispered Bob.
"Cappers," explained Baker briefly. "He only fakes pulling a tooth.
Watch him next time and you'll see that he doesn't actually pull an
ounce."
"Suppose a real toothache comes up?"
"I think that is one now. Watch him."
A young ranchman was making his way up the steps that led to the stage.
His skin was tanned by long exposure to the California sun, and his
cheek rounded into an unmistakable swelling.
"No fake about him," commented Baker.
He seated himself in the chair. Painless examined his jaw carefully. He
started back, both hands spread in expostulation.
"My _dear_ friend!" he cried, "you can save that tooth! It would be a
crime to pull that tooth! Come to my office at ten to-morrow morning and
I will see what can be done." He turned to the audience and for ten
minutes expounded the doctrine of modern dentistry as it stands for
saving a tooth whenever possible. Incidentally he had much to say as to
his skill in filling and bridge work and the marvellous painlessness
thereof. The meeting broke up finally to the inspiring strains of a
really good band. Bob and his friend, standing near the door, watched
the audience file out. Some threw away their pink and blue tickets, but
most stowed them carefully away.
"And every one that goes to the 'luxurious offices' for the free
dollar's worth will leave ten round iron ones," said Baker.
After a moment the Painless One and the Wizard marched smartly out,
serenely oblivious of the crowd. They stepped into a resplendent red
brougham and were whisked rapidly away.
"It pays to advertise," quoted Baker philosophically.
They moved on up the street.
"There's the inventor of the Unlimited Life," said Baker suddenly,
indicating a slender figure approaching. "I haven't seen him in three
years--not since he got into this graft, anyway."
"Unlimited Life," echoed Bob, "what's that? A medicine?"
"No. A cult. Hullo, Sunny!"
The approaching figure swerved and stopped. Bob saw a very slender
figure clad in a close-fitting, gray frock suit. To his surprise, from
beneath the wide, black felt hat there peered at him the keenly nervous
face of the more intelligent mulatto. The man's eyes were very bright
and shrewd. His hair surrounded his face as an aureole of darkness, and
swept low to his coat collar.
"Mr. Baker," he said, simply, his eyes inscrutable.
"Well, Sunny, this is my old friend Bob Orde. Bob, this is the
world-famous Sunny Larue, apostle of the Unlimited Life of whom you've
heard so much." He winked at Bob. "How's the Colony flourishing, Sunny?"
"More and more our people are growing to see the light," said the
mulatto in low, musical tones. "The mighty but simple principles of
Azamud are coming into their own. The poor and lowly, the humble and
oppressed are learning that in me is their salvation--." He went on in
his beautiful voice explaining the Colony of the Unlimited Life,
addressing always Bob directly and paying little attention to Baker, who
stood aside, his hands in his pockets, a smile on his fat, good-natured
face. It seemed that the Colony lived in tents in a cañon of the
foothills. It paid Larue fifty dollars a head, and in return was
supported for six months and instructed in the mysteries of the cult. It
had its regimen. "At three we arise and break our fast, quite simply,
with three or four dry prunes," breathed Larue, "and then, going forth
to the high places for one hour, we hold steadfast the thought of Love."
"Say, Sunny," broke in Baker, "how many you got rounded up now?"
"There are at present twenty-one earnest proselytes."
"At fifty a head--and you've got to feed and keep 'em somehow--even
three dried prunes cost you something in the long run"--ruminated Baker.
He turned briskly to the mulatto: "Sunny, on the dead, where does the
graft come in?"
The mulatto drew himself up in swift offence, scrutinized Bob closely
for a moment, met Baker's grin. Abruptly his impressive manner dropped
from him. He leaned toward them with a captivating flash of white teeth.
"_You just leave that to me_," he murmured, and glided away into the
crowd.
Baker laughed and drew Bob's arm within his own.
"Out of twenty of the faithful there's sure to be one or two with life
savings stowed away in a sock, and Sunny's the boy to make them produce
the sock."
"What's his cult, anyway?" asked Bob. "I mean, what do they pretend to
believe? I couldn't make out."
"A nigger's idea of Buddhism," replied Baker briefly. "But you can get
any brand of psychic damfoolishness you think you need in your business.
They do it all, here, from going barefoot, eating nuts, swilling olive
oil, rolling down hill, adoring the Limitless Whichness, and all the
works. It is now," he concluded, looking at his watch, "about ten
o'clock. We will finish the evening by dropping in on the Fuzzies."
Together they boarded a street car, which shortly deposited them at an
uptown corner. Large houses and spacious grounds indicated a district of
some wealth. To one of these houses, brilliantly lighted, Baker directed
his steps.
"But I don't know these people, and I'm not properly dressed," objected
Bob.
"They know me. And as for dress, if you'd arrange to wear a chaste
feather duster only, you'd make a hit."
A roomful of people were buzzing like a hive. Most were in conventional
evening dress. Here and there, however, Bob caught hints of masculine
long hair, of feminine psyche knots, bandeaux and other extremely
artistic but unusual departures. One man with his dinner jacket wore a
soft linen shirt perforated by a Mexican drawn-work pattern beneath
which glowed a bright red silk undergarment. Women's gowns on the
flowing and Grecian order were not uncommon. These were usually coupled
with the incongruity of parted hair brought low and madonna-wise over
the ears. As the two entered, a very powerful blond man was just
finishing the declamation of a French poem. He was addressing it
directly at two women seated on a sofa.
"_Un r-r-reve d'amour!_"
He concluded with much passion and clasped hands.
In the rustle ensuing after this effort, Baker led his friend down the
room to a very fat woman upholstered in pink satin, to whom he
introduced Bob. Mrs. Annis, for such proved to be her name, welcomed him
effusively.
"I've heard so much about you!" she cried vivaciously, to Bob's vast
astonishment. She tapped him on the arm with her fan. "I'm going to make
a confession to you; I know it may be foolish, but I do like music so
much better than I do pictures."
Bob, his brain whirling, muttered something.
"But I'm going to confess to you again, I like artists so much better
than I do musicians."
A light dawned on Bob. "But I'm not an artist nor a musician," he
blurted out.
The pink-upholstered lady, starting back with an agility remarkable in
one of her size, clasped her hands.
"Don't _tell_ me you write!" she cried dramatically.
"All right, I won't," protested poor Bob, "for I don't."
A slow expression of bewilderment overspread Mrs. Annis's face, and she
glanced toward Baker with an arched brow of interrogation.
"I merely wanted Mr. Orde to meet you, Mrs. Annis," he said
impressively, "and to feel that another time, when he is less exhausted
by the strain of a long day, he may have the privilege of explaining to
you the details of the great Psychic Movement he is inaugurating."
Mrs. Annis smiled on him graciously. "I am home every Sunday to my
_intimes_," she murmured. "I should be so pleased."
Bob bowed mechanically.
"You infernal idiot!" he ground out savagely to Baker, as they moved
away. "What do you mean? I'll punch your fool head when I get you out of
here!"
But the plump young man merely smiled.
Halfway down the room a group of attractive-looking young men hailed
them.
"Join in, Baker," said they. "Bring your friend along. We're just going
to raid the commissary."
But Baker shook his head.
"I'm showing him life," he replied. "None but Fuzzies in his to-night!"
He grasped Bob firmly by the arm and led him away.
"That," he said, indicating a very pale young man, surrounded by women,
"is Pickering, the celebrated submarine painter."
"The what?" demanded Bob.
"Submarine painter. He paints fish and green water and lobsters, and the
bottom of the sea generally. He paints them on the skins of kind-faced
little calves."
"What does he do that for?"
"He says it's the only surface that will express what he wants to. He
has also invented a waterproof paint that he can use under water. He has
a coral throne down on the bottom which he sits in, and paints as long
as he can hold his breath."
"Oh, he does!" said Bob.
"Yes," said Baker.
"But a man can't see three feet in front of his face under water!" cried
Bob.
"Pickering says he can. He paints submarinescapes, and knows all the
fishes. He says fishes have individual expressions. He claims he can
tell by a fish's expression whether he is polygamous or monogamous."
"Do you mean to tell me anybody swallows that rot!" demanded Bob
indignantly.
"The women do--and a lot more I can't remember. The market for
calf-skins with green swirls on them is booming. Also the women clubbed
together and gave him money enough to build a house."
Bob surveyed the little white-faced man with a strong expression of
disgust.
"The natural man never sits in chairs," the artist was expounding. "When
humanity shall have come into its own we shall assume the graceful and
hygienic postures of the oriental peoples. In society one must, to a
certain extent, follow convention, but in my own house, the House
Beautiful of my dreams, are no chairs. And even now a small group of the
freer spirits are following my example. In time----"
"If you don't take me away, I'll run in circles!" whispered Bob fiercely
to his friend.
They escaped into the open air.
"Phew!" said Bob, straightening his long form. "Is that what you call
the good society here?"
"Good society is there," amended Baker. "That's the joke. There are lots
of nice people in this little old town, people who lisp our language
fluently. They are all mixed in with the Fuzzies."
They decided to walk home. Bob marvelled at the impressive and
substantial buildings, at the atrocious streets. He spoke of the
beautiful method of illuminating one of the thoroughfares--by globes of
light gracefully supported in clusters on branched arms either side the
roadway.
"They were originally bronze--and they went and painted them a mail-box
green," commented Baker drily.
At the hotel the night clerk, a young man, quietly dressed and with an
engaging air, greeted them with just the right amount of cordiality as
he handed them their keys. Bob paused to look about him.
"This is a good hotel," he remarked.
"It's one of the best-managed, the best-conducted, and the
best-appointed hotels in the United States," said Baker with conviction.
The next morning Bob bought all the papers and glanced through them with
considerable wonder and amusement. They were decidedly metropolitan in
size, and carried a tremendous amount of advertising. Early in his
perusal he caught the personal bias of the news. Without distortion to
the point of literal inaccuracy, nevertheless by skilful use of
headlines and by manipulation of the point of view, all items were made
to subserve a purpose. In local affairs the most vulgar nicknaming, the
most savage irony, vituperation, scorn and contempt were poured out full
measure on certain individuals unpopular with the papers. Such epithets
as "lickspittle," "toad," "carcass blown with the putrefying gas of its
own importance," were read in the body of narration.
"These are the best-edited, most influential and powerful journals in
the West," commented Baker. "They possess an influence inconceivable to
an Easterner."
The advertising columns were filled to bursting with advertisements of
patent medicines, sex remedies, quack doctors, miraculous healers,
clairvoyants, palm readers, "philanthropists" with something "free" to
bestow, cleverly worded offers of abortion; with full-page prospectuses
of mines; of mushroom industrial concerns having to do with wave motors,
water motors, solar motors, patent couplers, improved telephones and the
like, all of whose stock now stood at $1.10, but which on April 10th, at
8.02 P.M., would go up to $1.15; with blaring, shrieking offers of real
estate in this, that or the other addition, consisting, as Bob knew from
yesterday, of farm acreage at front-foot figures. The proportion of this
fake advertising was astounding. One in particular seemed incredible--a
full page of the exponent of some Oriental method of healing and
prophecy.
"Of course, a full-page costs money," replied Baker. "But this is the
place to get it." He pushed back his chair. "Well, what do you think of
our fair young city?" he grinned.
"It's got me going," admitted Bob.
"Took me some time to find out where to get off at," said Baker. "When I
found it out, I didn't dare tell anybody. They mob you here and string
you up by your pigtail, if you try to hint that this isn't the one best
bet on terrestrial habitations. They like their little place, and they
believe in it a whole lot, and they're dead right about it! They'd stand
right up on their hind legs and paw the atmosphere if anybody were to
tell them what they really are, but it's a fact. Same joyous slambang,
same line of sharps hanging on the outskirts, same row, racket, and joy
in life, same struggle; yes, and by golly! the same big hopes and big
enterprises and big optimism and big energies! Wouldn't you like to be
helping them do it?"
"What's the answer?" asked Bob, amused.
"Well, for all its big buildings and its electric lights, and trolleys,
and police and size, it's nothing more nor less than a frontier town."
"A frontier town!" echoed Bob.
"You think it over," said Baker.