But if Bob imagined for one moment that he had acquired even a notion of
California in his experiences and observations down the San Joaquin and
in Los Angeles, the next few stages of his Sentimental Journey very soon
undeceived him. Baker's business interests soon took him away. Bob,
armed with letters of introduction from his friend, visited in turn such
places as Santa Barbara, Riverside, San Diego, Redlands and Pasadena. He
could not but be struck by the absolute differences that existed, not
only in the physical aspects but in the spirit and aims of the peoples.
If these communities had been separated by thousands of miles of
distance they could not have been more unlike.
At one place he found the semi-tropical luxuriance of flowers and trees
and fruits, the soft, warm sunshine, the tepid, langourous, musical
nights, the mellow haze of romance over mountain and velvet hill and
soft sea, the low-shaded cottages, the leisurely attractive people one
associates with the story-book conception of California. The place was
charming in its surroundings and in its graces of life, but it was a
cheerful, happy, out-at-the-heels, raggedy little town, whose bright
gardens adorned its abyssmal streets, whose beautiful mountains
palliated the naiveté of its natural and atrocious roads. Bob mingled
with its people with the pardonable amusement of a man fresh from the
doing of big things. There seemed to be such long, grave and futile
discussions over the undertaking of that which a more energetic
community would do as a matter of course in the day's work. The
liveryman from whom Bob hired his saddle horse proved to be a person of
a leisurely and sardonic humour.
"Their chief asset here is tourists," said he. "That's the leading
industry. They can't see it, and they don't want to. They have just one
road through the county. It's a bum one. You'd think it was a dozen, to
hear them talk about the immense undertaking of making it halfway
decent. Any other place would do these things they've been talking about
for ten years just on the side, as part of the get-ready. Lucky they
didn't have to do anything in the way of getting those mountains set
proper, or there'd be a hole there yet."
"Why don't you go East?" asked Bob.
"I did once. Didn't like it."
"What's the matter?"
"Well, I'll tell you. Back East when you don't do nothing, you feel kind
of guilty. Out here when you don't do nothing, _you don't give a damn!_"
Nevertheless, Bob was very sorry when he had to leave this quiet and
beautiful little town, with its happy, careless, charming people.
Thence he went directly to a town built in a half-circle of the
mountains. The sunshine here was warm and grateful, but when its rays
were withdrawn a stinging chill crept down from the snow. No sitting out
on the verandah after dinner, but often a most grateful fire in the
Club's fireplace. The mornings were crisp and enlivening. And again by
the middle of the day the soft California warmth laid the land under its
spell.
This was a place of orange-growers, young fellows from the East. Its
University Club was large and prosperous. Its streets were wide. Flowers
lined the curbs. There were few fences. The houses were in good taste.
Even the telephone poles were painted green so as to be unobtrusive. Bob
thought it one of the most attractive places he had ever seen, as indeed
it should be, for it was built practically to order by people of
intelligence.
Thence he drove through miles and miles of orange groves, so large that
the numerous workmen go about their work on bicycles. Even here in the
country, the roadsides were planted with palms and other ornamental
trees, and gay with flowers. Abruptly he came upon a squalid village of
the old regime, with ugly frame houses, littered streets, sagging
sidewalks foul with puddles, old tin cans, rubbish; populous with
children and women in back-yard dressing sacks--a distressing reminder
of the worst from the older-established countries. And again, at the end
of the week, he most unexpectedly found himself seated on a country-club
verandah, having a very good time, indeed, with some charming specimens
of the idle rich. He talked polo, golf, tennis and horses; he dined at
several most elaborate "cottages"; he rode forth on glossy, bang-tailed
horses, perfectly appointed; he drove in marvellously conceived traps in
company with most engaging damsels. When, finally, he reached Los
Angeles again he carried with him, as standing for California, not even
the heterogeneous but fairly coherent idea one usually gains of a single
commonwealth, but an impression of many climes and many peoples.
"Yes," said Baker, "and if you'd gone North to where I live, you'd have
struck a different layout entirely."
V
There remained in Bob's initial Southern California experience one more
episode that brought him an acquaintance, apparently casual, but which
later was to influence him.
Of an afternoon he walked up Main Street idly and alone. The exhibit of
a real estate office attracted him. Over the door, in place of a sign,
hung a huge stretched canvas depicting not too rudely a wide
country-side dotted with model farms of astounding prosperity. The
window was filled with pumpkins, apples, oranges, sheaves of wheat,
bottles full of soft fruits preserved in alcohol, and the like. As
background was an oil painting in which the Lucky Lands occupied a
spacious pervading foreground, while in clever perspectives the Coast
Range, the foothills, and the other cities of the San Fernando Valley
supplied a modest setting. This was usual enough.
At the door stood a very alert man with glasses. He scrutinized closely
every passerby. Occasionally he hailed one or the other, conversed
earnestly a brief instant, and passed them inside. Gradually it dawned
on Bob that this man was acting in the capacity of "barker"--that with
quite admirable perspicacity and accuracy, he was engaged in selecting
from the countless throngs the few possible purchasers for Lucky Lands.
Curious to see what attraction was offered to induce this unanimity of
acquiescence 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 slightly
elevated platform above which the white screen was suspended. More
agricultural products supplied the decorations. The body of the hall was
filled with folding chairs, about half of which were occupied. Perhaps a
dozen attendants tiptoed here and there. A successful attempt was
everywhere made to endow with high importance all the proceedings and
appurtenances of the Lucky Land Co.
Bob slipped into a chair. Immediately a small pasteboard ticket and a
fountain 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 is
drawn. The lucky ticket gets a free ride to Lucky on one of our weekly
homeseekers' excursions. Others pay one fare for round trip."
"I see," said Bob, signing, "and in return you get the names and
addresses of every one here."
He glanced up at his interlocutor with a quizzical expression that
changed at once to one of puzzlement. Where had he seen the man before?
He was, perhaps, fifty-five years old, tall and slender, slightly
stooped, slightly awry. His lean gray face was deeply lined, his
close-clipped moustache and hair were gray, and his eyes twinkled behind
his glasses with a cold gray light. Something about these glasses struck
faintly a chord of memory in Bob's experience, but he could not catch
its modulations. The man, on his side, stared at Bob a trifle
uncertainly. 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 of
light on the screen announced that the lecture was to begin.
The lecturer, was a glib, self-possessed youth, filled to the brim with
statistics, with which he literally overwhelmed his auditors. His
remarks were accompanied by a rapid-fire snapping of fingers to the time
of which the operator changed his slides. A bewildering succession of
coloured views flashed on the screen. They showed Lucky in all its
glories--the blacksmith shop, the main street, the new hotel, the
grocery, Brown's walnut ranch, the ditch, the Southern Pacific Depot,
the Methodist Church and a hundred others. So quickly did they succeed
each other that no one had time to reduce to the terms of experience the
scenes depicted on these slides--for with the glamour of exaggerated
colour, of unaccustomed presentation, and of skillful posing the most
commonplace village street seems wonderful and attractive for the
moment. The lecturer concluded by an alarming statement as to the
rapidity with which this desirable ranching property was being snapped
up. He urged early decisions as the only safe course; and, as usual with
all real estate men, called attention to the contrast between the
Riverside 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 place
to-morrow. One fare both ways to homeseekers. Free carriages to the
Lands. Grand free open-air lunch under the spreading sycamores and by
the babbling brook. Train leaves at seven-thirty."
In full sight of all he threw the packet of tickets into a hat and drew
one.
"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. The
lecturer 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 the
rear, where they were forced to go through the main offices of the
Company. Here were stationed the gray man and all his younger
assistants. Bob paused by the door. He could not but admire the acumen
of the barker in selecting his men. The audience was made up of just the
type of those who come to California with agricultural desires and a few
hundred dollars--slow plodders from Eastern farms, Italians with savings
and ambitions, half invalids--all the element that crowds the tourist
sleepers day in and day out, the people who are filling the odd corners
of the greater valleys. As these debouched into the glare of the outer
offices, they hesitated, making up their slow minds which way to turn.
In that instant or so the gray man, like a captain, assigned his
salesmen. The latter were of all sorts--fat and joking, thin and very
serious-minded, intense, enthusiastic, cold and haughty. The gray man
sized up his prospective customers and to each assigned a salesman to
suit. Bob had no means of guessing how accurate these estimates might
be, but they were evidently made intelligently, with some system
compounded of theory or experience. After a moment Bob became conscious
that he himself was being sharply scrutinized by the gray man, and in
return 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. In
one car he found a score of "prospects" already seated, accompanied by
half their number of the young men of the real estate office. The utmost
jocularity and humour prevailed, except in one corner where a very
earnest young man drove home the points of his argument with an
impressive forefinger. Bob dropped unobtrusively into a seat, and
prepared to enjoy his never-failing interest in the California landscape
with its changing wonderful mountains; its alternations of sage brush
and wide cultivation; its vineyards as far as the eye could distinguish
the vines; its grainfields seeming to fill the whole cup of the valleys;
its orchards wide as forests; and its desert stretches, bigger than them
all, awaiting but the vivifying touch of water to burst into
productiveness. He heard one of the salesmen expressing this.
"'Water is King,'" he was saying, quoting thus the catchword of this
particular concern. He was talking in a half-joking way, asking one or
the other how many inches of rainfall could be expected per annum back
where they came from.
"Don't know, do you?" he answered himself. "Nobody pays any great and
particular amount of attention to that--you get water enough, except in
exceptional years. Out here it's different. Every one knows to the
hundredth of an inch just how much rain has fallen, and how much ought
to 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 in
the right place nor does it come at the right time. You can't grow crops
in the high mountains where most of the precipitation occurs. But you
can 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, ditches
all 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 of
cultivation that apparently worthless land can produce--" he went on at
great length detailing statistics of production. Even to Bob, who had no
vital nor practical interest, it was all most novel and convincing.
So absorbed did he become that he was somewhat startled when a man sat
down beside him. He looked, up to meet the steel gray eyes and
glittering glasses of the chief. Again there swept over him a sense of
familiarity, the feeling that somewhere, at some time, he had met this
man before. It passed almost as quickly as it came, but left him
puzzled.
"Of course your name is not Smith, nor do you come from Reno," said the
man in gray abruptly. "I've seen you somewhere before, but I can't place
you. Are you a newspaperman?"
"I've been thinking the same of you," returned Bob. "No, I'm just plain
tourist."
"I don't imagine you're particularly interested in Lucky," said the gray
man. "Why did you come?"
"Just idleness and curiosity," replied Bob frankly.
"Of course we try to get the most value in return for our expenditures
on these excursions by taking men who are at least interested in the
country," suggested the gray man.
"By Jove, I never thought of that!" cried Bob. "Of course, I'd no
business to take that free ticket. I'll pay you my fare."
The gray man had been scrutinizing him intensely and keenly. At Bob's
comically contrite expression, his own face cleared.
"No, you misunderstand me," he replied in his crisp fashion. "We give
these excursions as an advertisement of what we have. The more people to
know about Lucky, the better our chances. We made an offer of which you
have taken advantage. You're perfectly welcome, and I hope you'll enjoy
yourself. Here, Selwyn," he called to one of the salesman, "this is
Mr.--what did you say your name is?"
"Orde," replied Bob.
The gray man seemed for an almost imperceptible instant to stiffen in
his 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 two
young men. Bob felt himself the object of a furtive but minute scrutiny
which lasted until the train slowed down at the outskirts of Lucky.
Selwyn proved to be an agreeable young man, keen-faced, clean-cut, full
of energy and enthusiasm. He soon discovered that Bob did not
contemplate going into ranching, and at once admitted that young man to
his confidence.
"You just nail a seat in that surrey over there, while I chase out my
two 'prospects.' We sell on commission and I've got to rustle."
They drove out of the sleepy little village on which had been grafted
showy samples of the Company's progress. The day was beautiful with
sunshine, with the mellow calls of meadow larks, with warmth and sweet
odours. As the surrey took its zigzag way through the brush, as the
quail paced away to right and left, as the delicate aroma of the sage
rose to his nostrils, Bob began to be very glad he had come. Here and
there the brush had been cleared, small shacks built, fences of wire
strung, and the land ploughed over. At such places the surrey paused
while Selwyn held forth to his two stolid "prospects" on how long these
newcomers had been there and how well they were getting on. The country
rose in a gradual slope to the slate-blue mountains. Ditches ran here
and there. Everywhere were small square stakes painted white, indicating
the boundaries of tracts yet unsold.
They visited the reservoir, which looked to Bob uncommonly like a muddy
duck pond, but whose value Selwyn soon made very clear. They wandered
through the Chiquito ranch, whence came the exhibition fruit and other
products, and which formed the basis of most Lucky arguments. The owner
had taken many medals for his fruit, and had spent twenty-five years in
making the Chiquito a model.
"Any man can do likewise in this land of promise," said Selwyn.
They ended finally in a beautiful little cañon among the foothills. It
was grown thick with twisted, mottled sycamores just budding into leaf,
with vines and greenery of the luxurious California varieties. Birds
sang everywhere and a brook babbled and bubbled down a stony bed.
Under the largest of the sycamores a tent had been pitched and a table
spread. Affairs seemed to be in charge of a very competent countrywoman
whose fuzzy horse and ramshackle buggy stood securely tethered below.
The surries drove up and deposited their burdens. Bob took his place at
table to be served with an abundant, hot and well-cooked meal.
The ice had been broken. Everybody laughed and joked. Some of the men
removed their coats in order to be more comfortable. The young salesmen
had laboured successfully to bring these strangers to a feeling of
partnership in at least the aims of the Company, of partisanship against
the claims of other less-favoured valleys than Lucky. During a pause in
the fun, one of the "prospects," an elderly, white-whiskered farmer of
the more prosperous type, nodded toward the brook.
"That sounds good," said he.
"It's the supply for the Lucky Lands," replied Selwyn. "It ought to
sound good."
"There's mighty few flowing creeks in California this far out from the
mountains," interposed another salesman. "You know out here, except in
the rainy season, the rivers all flow bottom-up."
They all guffawed at this ancient and mild joke. The old farmer wagged
his head.
"Water is King," said he solemnly, as though voicing an original and
profound thought.
A look of satisfaction overspread the countenance of the particular
salesman who had the old farmer in charge. When you can get your
"prospect" to adopt your catchword and enunciate it with conviction, he
is yours!
After the meal Bob, unnoticed, wandered off up the cañon. He had
ascertained that the excursionists would not leave the spot for two
hours yet, and he welcomed the chance for exercise. Accordingly he set
himself to follow the creek, the one stream of pure and limpid water
that did not flow bottom-up. At first this was easy enough, but after a
while the cañon narrowed, and Bob found himself compelled to clamber
over rocks and boulders, to push his way through thickets of brush and
clinging vines, finally even to scale a precipitous and tangled side
hill over which the stream fell in a series of waterfalls. Once past
this obstruction, however, the country widened again. Bob stood in the
bed of a broad, flat wash flanked by low hills. Before him, and still
some miles distant, rose the mountains in which the stream found its
source.
Bob stood still for a moment, his hat in his hand, enjoying the tepid
odours, the warm sun and the calls of innumerable birds. Then he became
aware 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 came
to a small wooden shack from which emanated the sound of the gas
explosions. A steady stream of water gushed from a pump operated by the
gasoline engine. Above, the stream bed was dry. Here was the origin of
the "beautiful mountain stream."
Chair-tilted in front of the shack sat a man smoking a pipe. He looked
up as Bob approached.
"Hullo," said he; "show over?"
He disappeared inside and shut off the gasoline engine. Immediately the
flow ceased; the stream dried up as though scorched. Presently the man
emerged, thrusting his hands into the armholes of an old coat. Shrugging
the 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 a
new 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.
They drove down an old dim road that avoided the difficulties of the
cañon. At camp they found the surries just loading up. Bob took his
place. Before the rigs started back, the gray man, catching sight of the
pump man, drew him aside and said several things very vigorously. The
pump man answered with some indignation, pointing finally to Bob.
Instantly the gray man whirled to inspect the young fellow. Then he shot
a 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, "but
I've got to stick close to these prospects. There's a gang of knockers
hanging around here always, just waiting for a chance to lip in."
When the train started, however, Selwyn came back to drop into Bob's
seat with a wearied sigh.
"Gosh! I get sick of handing out dope to these yaps," said he. "I was
afraid 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 the
chicken off the earth," explained Selwyn. "I've seen more than one good
prospect 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 these
yahoos almost always bring their cash right with 'em. Other's no good. I
get so I can spot that kind the first three words. They're always too
blame enthusiastic about the country and the Company. Seems like they
try to pay for their entertainment by jollying us along. Don't fool me
any. When a man begins to object to things, you know he's thinking of
buying."
Bob listened to this wisdom with some amusement. "How'd you explain when
the 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 Foothill
Tracts."
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 eye
on you closer."
He fell silent, and Bob eyed him speculatively. He liked the young
fellow'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 are
mistaken when you think it's a bunco game. The land is good; there's
plenty 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, and
three out of four are making good. The fourth simply hadn't the capital
to hold out until returns came in. It's as good a small-ranch
proposition as they could find. If I didn't think so, I wouldn't be in
it for a minute."
"How about that stream?"
"Nobody said the stream was a natural one. And the water exists, no
matter where it comes from. You can't impress an Eastern farmer with a
pump proposition: that's a matter of education. They come to see its
value after they've tried it."
"But your--".
"I told you I didn't like the methods. I won't have anything to do with
the 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 sell
millions of acres," said Selwyn, "and this is about the only concern
that succeeds in colonizing on a large scale. Oldham developed this
system, 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 of
the law, but he never steps over. He's a mighty bright business man, and
he's made a heap of money."
When nearing the Arcade depot, Oldham himself stepped forward.
"Stopping in California long?" he asked, with some approach to
geniality.
"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. But
how did you know I am with Welton?" he asked.
"With Welton!" echoed Oldham. "Oh, yes--well, I heard from Michigan
business acquaintances you were with him. Welton's lands are in Granite
County?"
"Yes," said Bob.
"Well," said Oldham vaguely, "I hope you have enjoyed your little
outing." He turned away.
"Now, how the deuce should anybody know about me, or that I am with
Welton, or take the trouble to write about it?"
He mulled over this for some time. For lack of a better reason, he
ascribed to his former football prominence the fact that Oldham's
Michigan correspondent had thought him worth mention. Yet that seemed
absurdly inadequate.