Escondido, the nearest town and post office to El Cajon Ranch, is a
quaint little place with a decided Mexican atmosphere. Those California
inhabitants whom we call, for convenience, “Mexicans,” are not all
natives of Mexico, by any means. Most of them are a mixed breed derived
from the early Spanish settlers and the native Indian tribes—both alike
practically extinct in this locality—and have never stepped foot in
Mexican territory, although the boundary line is not far distant.
Because the true Mexican is generally a similar admixture of Indian and
Spaniard, it is customary to call these Californians by the same
appellation. The early Spaniards left a strong impress upon this state,
and even in the newly settled districts the Spanish architecture
appropriately prevails, as typical of a semi-tropical country which owed
its first civilizing influences to old Spain.
The houses of Escondido are a queer mingling of modern bungalows and
antique adobe dwellings. Even the business street shows many adobe
structures. A quiet, dreamy little town, with a comfortable hotel and
excellent stores, it is much frequented by the wealthy ranchers in its
neighborhood.
After stopping at the post office, Arthur drove down a little side
street to a weather-beaten, unprepossessing building which bore the word
“Restaurant” painted in dim white letters upon its one window. Here he
halted the machine.
“Oh,” said Beth, drawing a long breath. “Is this one of your little
jokes, Arthur?”
“A joke? Didn’t we come for luncheon, then?”
“We did, and I’m ravenous,” said Patsy. “But you informed us that there
is a good hotel here, on the main street.”
“So there is,” admitted Arthur; “but it’s like all hotels. Now, this
is—different. If you’re hungry; if you want a treat—something out of the
ordinary—just follow me.”
Louise was laughing at their doubting expressions and this care-free
levity led them to obey their host’s injunction. Then the dingy door
opened and out stepped a young fellow whom the girls decided must be
either a cowboy or a clever imitation of one.
He seemed very young—a mere boy—for all his stout little form. He was
bareheaded and a shock of light, tow-colored hair was in picturesque
disarray. A blue flannel shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, a pair of drab
corduroy trousers and rough shoes completed his attire. Pausing
awkwardly in the doorway, he first flushed red and then advanced boldly
to shake Arthur’s hand.
“Why, Weldon, this is an unexpected pleasure,” he exclaimed in a
pleasant voice that belied his rude costume, for its tones were well
modulated and cultured. “I’ve been trying to call you up for three days,
but something is wrong with the line. How’s baby?”
This last question was addressed to Louise, who shook the youth’s hand
cordially.
“Baby is thriving finely,” she reported, and then introduced her friends
to Mr. Rudolph Hahn, who, she explained, was one of their nearest
neighbors.
“We almost crowd the Weldons,” he said, “for our house is only five
miles distant from theirs; so we’ve been getting quite chummy since they
moved to El Cajon. Helen—that’s my wife, you know—is an humble worshiper
at the shrine of Miss Jane Weldon, as we all are, in fact.”
“Your wife!” cried Patsy in surprise.
He laughed.
“You think I’m an infant, only fit to play with Jane,” said he; “but I
assure you I could vote, if I wanted to—which I don’t. I think, sir,”
turning to Uncle John, “that my father knows you quite well.”
“Why, surely you’re not the son of Andy Hahn, the steel king?”
“I believe they do give him that royal title; but Dad is only a monarch
in finance, and when he visits my ranch he’s as much a boy as his son.”
“It scarcely seems possible,” declared Mr. Merrick, eyeing the rough
costume wonderingly but also with approval. “How long have you lived out
here?”
“Six years, sir. I’m an old inhabitant. Weldon, here, has only been
alive for six months.”
“Alive?”
“Of course. One breathes, back east, but only lives in California.”
During the laughter that followed this enthusiastic epigram Arthur
ushered the party into the quaint Spanish restaurant. The room was clean
and neat, despite the fact that the floor was strewn with sawdust and
the tables covered with white oilcloth. An anxious-eyed, dapper little
man with a foreign face and manner greeted them effusively and asked in
broken English their commands.
Arthur ordered the specialties of the house. “These friends, Castro, are
from the far East, and I’ve told them of your famous cuisine. Don’t
disappoint them.”
“May I join you?” asked Rudolph Hahn. “I wish I’d brought Nell over
to-day; she’d have been delighted with this meeting. But we didn’t know
you were coming. That confounded telephone doesn’t reach you at all.”
“I’m going over to the office to see about that telephone,” said Arthur.
“I believe I’ll do the errand while Castro is preparing his compounds.
I’m always uneasy when the telephone is out of order.”
“You ought to be,” said Rudolph, “with that blessed baby in the house.
It might save you thirty precious minutes in getting a doctor.”
“Does your line work?” asked Louise.
“Yes; it seems to get all connections but yours. So I imagine something
is wrong with your phone, or near the house.”
“I’ll have them send a repair man out at once,” said Arthur, and
departed for the telephone office, accompanied by his fellow rancher.
While they were gone Louise told them something of young Hahn’s history.
He had eloped, at seventeen years of age, with his father’s
stenographer, a charming girl of eighteen who belonged to one of the
best families in Washington. Old Hahn was at first furious and
threatened to disinherit the boy, but when he found the young bride’s
family still more furious and preparing to annul the marriage on the
grounds of the groom’s youth, the great financier’s mood changed and he
whisked the pair off to California and bought for them a
half-million-dollar ranch, where they had lived for six years a life of
unalloyed bliss. Having no children of their own, the Hahns were devoted
to little Jane and it was Rudolph who had given the baby the sobriquet
of “Toodlums.” At almost any time, night or day, the Hahn automobile was
liable to arrive at El Cajon for a sight of the baby.
“Rudolph—we call him ‘Dolph,’ you know—has not a particle of business
instinct,” said Louise, “so he will never be able to take his father’s
place in the financial world. And he runs his ranch so extravagantly
that it costs the pater a small fortune every year. Yet they are
agreeable neighbors, artless and unconventional as children, and surely
the great Hahn fortune won’t suffer much through their inroads.”
When Arthur returned he brought with him still another neighboring
ranchman, an enormous individual fully six feet tall and broad in
proportion, who fairly filled the doorway as he entered. This man was
about thirty years of age, stern of feature and with shaggy brows that
overhung a pair of peaceful blue eyes which ought to have been set in
the face of some child. This gave him a whimsical look that almost
invariably evoked a smile when anyone observed him for the first time.
He walked with a vigorous, aggressive stride and handled his big body
with consummate grace and ease. His bow, when Arthur introduced him, was
that of an old world cavalier.
“Here is another of our good friends for you to know. He’s our neighbor
at the north and is considered the most enterprising orange grower in
all California,” announced Weldon, with a chuckle that indicated he had
said something funny.
“Lemon,” said the man, speaking in such a shrill, high-pitched tenor
voice that the sound was positively startling, coming from so massive a
chest.
“I meant lemon,” Arthur hastened to say. “Permit me to introduce Mr.
Bulwer Runyon, formerly of New York but now the pride of the Pacific
coast, where his superb oranges—”
“Lemons,” piped the high, childish voice.
“Whose lemons are the sourest and—and—juiciest ever grown.”
“What there are of them,” added the man in a wailing tenor.
“We are highly honored to meet Mr. Bulwer Runyon,” said the major,
noticing that the girls were for once really embarrassed how to greet
this new acquaintance.
“Out here,” remarked Dolph Hahn, with a grin, “we drop the handle to his
name and call him ‘Bul Run’ for short. Sounds sort of patriotic, you
know, and it’s not inappropriate.”
“You wrong me,” said the big rancher, squeaking the words cheerfully but
at the same time frowning in a way that might well have terrified a
pirate. “I’m not a bull and I don’t run. It’s enough exertion to walk.
Therefore I ride. My new car is equipped with one of those remarkable—”
“Pardon me; we will not discuss your new car, if you please,” said
Arthur. “We wish to talk of agreeable things. The marvelous Castro is
concocting some of his mysterious dishes and we wish you to assist us in
judging their merits.”
“I shall be glad to, for I’m pitifully hungry,” said the tenor voice. “I
had breakfast at seven, you know—like a working man—and the ride over
here in my new six-cylinder machine, which has a wonderful—”
“Never mind the machine, please. Forget it, and try to be sociable,”
begged Dolph.
“How is the baby, Mrs. Weldon?”
“Well and hearty, Bulwer,” replied Louise. “Why haven’t you been to see
little Jane lately?”
“I heard you had company,” said Mr. Runyon; “and the last time I came I
stayed three days and forgot all about my ranch. I’ve made a will, Mrs.
Weldon.”
“A will! You’re not going to die, I hope?”
“I join you in that hope, most fervently, for I’d hate to leave the new
machine and its—”
“Go on, Bulwer.”
“But life is fleeting, and no one knows just when it’ll get to the end
of its fleet. Therefore, as I love the baby better than any other object
on earth—animate or inanimate—except—”
“Never mind your new car.”
He sighed.
“Therefore, Mrs. Weldon, I’ve made Jane my heiress.”
“Oh, Bul! Aren’t you dreadfully in debt?”
“Yes’m.”
“Is the place worth the mortgage?” inquired Arthur.
“Just about, although the money sharks don’t think so. But all property
out here is rapidly increasing in value,” declared Runyon, earnestly,
“so, if I can manage to hold on a while longer, Toodlums will inherit
a—a—several fine lemon trees, at least.”
Uncle John was delighted with the big fellow with the small voice. Even
the major clapped Bul Run on the shoulder and said the sentiment did him
credit, however big the mortgage might be.
By the time Castro brought in his first surprise—a delicious soup—a
jovial and friendly party was gathered around the oilcloth board. Even
the paper napkins could not dampen the joy of the occasion, or detract
from the exquisite flavor of the broth.
The boyish Dolph bewailed anon the absence of his “Nell,” who loved
Castro’s cookery above everything else, while every endeavor of Mr.
Runyon to explain the self-starter on his new car was so adroitly headed
off by his fellow ranchers that the poor fellow was in despair. The
“lunch” turned out to be a seven course dinner and each course
introduced such an enticing and unusual dish that every member of the
party became an audacious gormandizer. None of the girls—except
Louise—had ever tasted such concoctions before, or might even guess what
many of them were composed of; but all agreed with Patsy when she
energetically asserted that “Castro out-cheffed both Rector and Sherry.”
“If only he would have tablecloths and napkins, and decent rugs upon the
floor,” added dainty Louise.
“Oh, that would ruin the charm of the place,” protested Uncle John.
“Don’t suggest such a horror to Castro, Louise; at least until after we
have returned to New York.”
“I’ll take you riding in my car,” piped Runyon to Beth, who sat beside
him. “I don’t have to crank it, you know; I just—”
“Have you sold your orange crop yet?” asked Arthur.
“Lemons, sir!” said the other reproachfully. And the laugh that followed
again prevented his explaining the self-starter.
The porch was shady and cool when they emerged from the feast room and
Arthur Weldon, as host, proposed they sit on the benches with their
coffee and cigars and have a social chat. But both Runyon and Hahn
protested this delay. They suggested, instead, that all ride back to El
Cajon and play with the baby, and so earnest were they in this desire
that the proud young father and mother had not the grace to refuse.
Both men had their cars at the village garage and an hour later the
procession started. Beth riding beside “Bul Run” and Patsy accompanying
the jolly “Dolph.”
“We must stop and pick up Nell,” said the latter, “for she’d be mad as
hops if I went to see Toodlums without her.”
“I don’t wonder,” replied Patsy. “Isn’t my niece a dear baby?”
“Never was one born like her. She’s the only woman I ever knew who
refuses to talk.”
“She crows, though.”
“To signify she agrees with everyone on every question; and her angelic
smile is so genuine and constant that it gets to your heart in spite of
all resistance.”
“And she’s so soft and mushy, as it were,” continued Patsy
enthusiastically; “but I suppose she’ll outgrow that, in time.”
Mrs. Helen Hahn, when the three automobiles drew up before her young
husband’s handsome residence, promptly agreed to join Rudolph in a visit
to the baby. She proved to be a retiring and rather shy young woman, but
she was very beautiful and her personality was most attractive. Both
Patsy and Beth were delighted to find that Louise had so charming a
neighbor, of nearly her own age.
Rudolph would not permit the party to proceed further until all had
partaken of a refreshing glass of lemonade, and as this entailed more or
less delay the sun was getting low as they traversed the five miles to
El Cajon, traveling slowly that they might enjoy the exquisite tintings
of the sky. Runyon, who was a bachelor, lived a few miles the other side
of Arthur’s ranch. All three ranches had at one time been part of the
Spanish grant to the Cristovals, and while Arthur now possessed the old
mansion, the greatest number of acres had been acquired by Rudolph Hahn,
who had preferred to build for himself and his bride a more modern
residence.