A White-Ash Deal.
By Wiford A. Strahan.
IT was an evening in July and so hot that the electric lights seemed to stop at intervals to gasp for breath. I lounged in an easy chair in front of the principal hotel of the town, which is situated in about the center of California, and, with as little effort as possible, observed what I could see and hear. The male population was chiefly clothed in nankeen, with russet shoes and turtle-shell straw hats, the effect of which was that the place apppeared as yellow as the proverbial yellow dog. The ladies had discarded the usual frills and furbelows for almost the simplicity of a mosquito-bar and fan.
Two traveling men sat near me, their feet high up on the veranda posts, their vests open, trying to breathe as much as possible through their pores. They were, however, listening intently to the landlord. Commodore Bugle, who was unreeling great, slivery vestoons of information regarding the resources of the country. A number of the local business weather-cocks and associates in crime had casually gathered about to lend the prestige of their presence and coincide in what he said.
It was at this juncture that I noticed the presence of two strangers. They had been given the best seats within the focus of the electric fan, "Most considerate," I mused, "'tis like letting a bullock cool off before slaughtering him."
The Commodore went on describing the character of the soil, stating there were three distinct kinds — the sandy land, the red land, and the white-ash land — the last named being the strongest. "The property you gentlemen were asking about," continued the Commodore, "belongs to the white-ash variety and joins the townsite of Shelbyville. In boom time land in that locality sold as high as one hundred dollars per acre, and if you can get it for thirty-seven, it ought to be a great snap."
"Working up a scheme to sell these two strangers a big slice of alkali dessert," I though, and evidently the drummers did too, for they changed their sitting posture, lighted new cigars and started in to have a little fun on their own account. They appeared wholly unconscious of the gathering crowd, eager to hear their excruciatingly funny stories. But when the dignitaries had edged near enough and the Commodore was lending more than half an ear, one of them remarked to the other:
"Say, Buck, of all the desolation I have ever seen I beheld the worst today coming across here from the Coast range. Why, the horned-toads were in tears, and the jack-rabbits had to carry their rations!"
I expected to hear the Commodore give the command to "put her about on the other tack," but no ! he only, with added dignity, perused the evening paper.
"Yes," said the other Knight of the Grip, "that is bad enough, but if you want to see the relics of wasted energy and abandoned hopes, you should go out the other way to the Slavonian colony, where the efforts of that patient and frugal people have been in vain. Empty houses and untilled fields on every hand. What few there are left are too poor to get away. There was a funeral in progress while I was there and it was a most pathetic sight. Why, my dear man, they were actually fertilizing the poor fellow's grave."
This was rapping the Commodore's knuckles too hard, and with a kind of heave-'er-to snort he turned in his chair, remarking, "You gentlemen appear to be enjoying yourselves. 'Tis not my custom to retire under fire and if you fellows will oblige me by stepping into the
