CHAPTER VI
I
WE MUST now consider two years as passing by, and both the characters of our tale and California herself as moving toward their fates, or certain crises in their development.
Very few definite things happened that a historian would have put down with dates opposite. But many subtle forces waxed or waned, readjusting their alignments.
One of the most important, or most talked about, event was the taking over of Las Flores by the bank, and the moving of the Cazadero family bag and baggage to some obscure quarter of the town. The thing had been seen before, many times, but never with the picturesque suddenness of this instance. As far as the man in the street knew, Don Vincente was one of the few old landowners who possessed some business sense. This was proved conclusively by the fact that he was the only one who still had any land. There were, moreover, no premonitory symptoms. Las Flores did not reduce its personnel nor its scale; it did not visibly practise those small economies that are so futile in face of big basic incompetence. Simply overnight the Cazaderos packed their personal belongings and drove into town; and an agent of the bank moved into the old ranch house. It was to be presumed that the new arrangement was for the best all around; and that Cazadero received something substantial over and above his debts. At least the family managed a fairly decent establishment, including a fringe-topped surry; and they never showed outwardly the least regret. Don Vincente, indeed, would wave his small pudgy hand airily at any discreet mention of Las Flores.
"Yes, one regrets," he said, "because it is the long-time home of the childhood. But the time change. One grows old. One has no son" and he shrugged his shoulders in the implication that his judgment alone had dictated this move. The house they occupied was on a side street downtown, somewhere among the older residences that nobody knew. A few of the older families tried to keep track of them by means of occasional and spasmodic visits: but, amiable as she was, Doña Cazadero had very little to offer. Outside her traditional setting she was nothing very much. Her apparent placid content with her chocolate caramels and her yellow novel, her rocking chair and her dressing sack, her slow, afternoon amble down Main Street, robbed the situation of that sort of loyalty that springs from pity. She seemed to be getting on all right, so why bore oneself? Don Vincente was rarely at home. He had no content at all with his lot; though no one was permitted to know it. His pride was wounded to the death; a bitter, smothered rage burned in his heart against the American race and the smart tricks by which he thought they had despoiled him. Colonel Peyton was almost the only man he excepted from this hatred; and Colonel Peyton he avoided sedulously for the simple reason that his pride and his conscience were both torn over the great sums of money he knew now he could never repay. He consorted only with members of his own race, frequenting much of the time wine halls to the west of Main Street.
The Fremont and San Antonio hotels had been transferred to a syndicate and were being run efficiently by a professional manager. They were good hotels. Tourists visiting them for the first time went away loud in their praises. The staff was excellent and polite, the food good and abundant, the rooms clean; and the arrangements for the comfort and amusement and information of the guests rather unusually well thought and managed. Yet some of the old timers, like our friends Saxon and George Scott or Marcus Oberman, would shake their heads and regret the "good old days." They could not tell what they missed. Indeed, cross-questioned laughingly, they had to confess that there had been many desirable innovations. But it was different, somehow. What they really missed was the intimate, personal touch of Colonel Peyton's affectionate ministrations. The Fremont was a very perfect machine for comfortable living while away from home: it was no longer a home itself.
For the Colonel never visited the hotel any more. He felt as though he had lost a whole piece out of the close-knit structure of his life; as, indeed, he had. Nobody but Allie knew how deeply he felt his loss. Some of his old friends may have guessed, but only from the fact that he so consistently absented himself. To the world in general he presented a jovial face.
"What business has a ranchman with hotels!" he cried with a laugh. "I'm getting along toward being an old man; and why I should bother myself with a lot of business I don't need to do in the least I'm sure I don't know!"
This was the attitude he consistently maintained. The new generation of tourists knew him not, except as a fine old figure driving or walking by, with a charming old-fashioned way of bowing to every stranger who passed within ten feet of him. Occasionally he gave a picnic at the ranch to which he invited some of his old hotel friends, with a request that they bring along whom they pleased. In this fashion he was still known to a select few of the winter tourists, who loved to exclaim over his picturesqueness and the romance of his old-time ranch; to the great disgust and envy of those not favoured. These were, compared to the old barbecues, simple picnics. They had not the wide, lavish, splendid picturesqueness of the barbecue; but they were charming, and their hospitality was dispensed in memorable fashion by the Colonel and his wife. The latter was always assisted by a tall, grave-eyed dark girl of seventeen, who moved with that complete command of her body that makes grace; and a curly haired, laughing-eyed, bronzed young man in his twenties, who had many small jokes for everybody, and who kept things going in a lively fashion. The old barbecues had been discontinued completely. This was at Allie's insistence. The Colonel yielded reluctantly, for they had always been her especial festival. But they had to be one of the first economies; and Allie had set down some appalling figures as to their cost, figures in which the Colonel had no belief whatever.
In other small respects, too, the ranch gave evidence, to the Colonel's seeing eye, that economies had been undertaken; though the casual observer would have discerned nothing wrong. But the whitewash on the outbuildings and corral fences, and the trunks of the fruit trees, to take one small example, was not scrupulously renewed twice a year, as formerly. They looked well enough, but had lost their old, dazzling, prideful freshness. The borders of the long avenue grew a jolly crop of weeds and vine tangle—as indeed did the borders of every other road in the county; but in prosperous times even such remote corners had been clean and ship-shape. In short, all the little fancy touches, the refinements of neatness, the exuberances that not only groomed the horse but polished the hooves, were all gone. For to accomplish these fancy touches a superabundance of labour is necessary, so that for each small task is a man to polish that task off with trimmings. Allie had drawn up another disconcerting list of the inhabitants of Corona del Monte. It represented a small village.
"But you can't count in old Pedro, for instance, nor Carla, and certainly not the children. We don't hire them: we only hire Pablo," protested the Colonel.
"Well, they all live on Pablo," Allie pointed out, "and Pablo gets everything he owns in life from the ranch. So the ranch is supporting them just the same, whether it is direct or indirect."
The Colonel sighed and gave it up. But when it came to cutting down that surplus population, there was more difficulty. The ones the Colonel was most willing to let go were those who had been with him the shortest time. And naturally the latter were, nine cases in ten, the most efficient.
"If you keep on this way you'll have nobody on the place but a lot of guitar playing loafers," cried Allie, with some point.
The result was a compromise, which satisfied wholly neither the demands of sentiment nor those of efficiency; but which, nevertheless, did work out better on economic lines than the old system.
Allie also stopped the old easy fashion that had always obtained of the retainers helping themselves from a community supply of vegetables and fruit.
"Just because they've always done it is no particular reason why they should always continue to do it," she answered the Colonel's protest. "There is no reason why we should pay men to make a garden when a lot of them are lying around doing nothing. I'm beginning to believe that that is most of the trouble here—too many people doing nothing."
The result was that a few acres in the flat below were set aside as a garden spot for the families living on the ranch. Those who pleased to do so could there raise vegetables. As to fruit, Allie established a rough system of credit for work done in the orchard payable in fruit. It must be confessed that this system was only partially successful. Most of the Spanish families fell back on canned goods, or a little resentfully paid Lo for vegetables from the ranch gardens. Lo sold vegetables cheap, but he drove rigid bargains. Allie's bustling, practical genius had devised a scheme by which Lo went shares. Perched atop a rattle-trap old box wagon resurrected from the ranch's scrap heap, Lo early each morning drove into Arguello with a load of fresh truck. This he peddled from door to door. From the results he paid himself and his two assistants and turned over half the net profits to Allie. This and the poultry business, which was conducted on similar lines, were the only details of this miserable and depressing economy that tickled the Colonel. He used to chuckle and ask Allie how the Oriental Trading Company was coming on.
"Just the same," the latter averred, stoutly, "we are getting our own supplies absolutely for nothing, and a very neat little sum besides. Do you know what our vegetable garden and our poultry yard were costing us before?"
"No; and I don't want to!" cried the Colonel in pretended dismay. "If you and your Chinese partners are satisfied, I am!"
But for the time being, at least, all these changes from the traditional open handed methods of the past made the Colonel miserable. He felt mean and penny pinching. It was somehow as though he were depriving all these people of something that was rightfully theirs. He felt that they must be secretly despising him as a skinflint; and so he was unable to meet them in his old hearty, open-souled fashion. Only with a few of the reliable older men, who understood the situation, like Manuelo, did he open up; and then merely in half regretful reminiscence of the old days. From all the others he thought he concealed the situation. The idea that his old retainers should think him suddenly turned skinflint actually hurt the old man less than that they should distrust the prosperity or stability of the rancho!
But old Sing Toy broke down this unhappy attitude. One evening he appeared suddenly in the doorway of the living room. Allie was, as usual, seated in her worn old wooden rocker sewing; while the Colonel, his lean, kindly old face bent over a book, was staring wide-eyed back through many years. Sing Toy was dressed up to the nines. He had on several brocaded jackets one showing below the other, the innermost of a pale lavender, and the others shading to the outermost, which was blue. His baggy trousers were also of lavender brocade, and were tied tight around the ankles with a crossed winding of white tape. Socks of snowy white disappeared into embroidered shoes with thick soles. Sing Toy wore the stiff skull cap with the red button, as was his right: and his queue hung respectfully down his back.
"Good gracious, Toy!" cried Allie, when she caught sight of this magnificence, "where's the party?"
Sing Toy bowed gravely from the waist.
"No party," said he. "I come talk to Colonel."
It was evidently a serious and ceremonial occasion. The Colonel aroused himself from his abstraction.
"Come in, Sing Toy," said he.
This, he could see was no mere contact of master and servant. With the donning of his magnificent raiment Sing Toy had put on equality. The Colonel knew his Chinamen, and realized this fact. "Sit down," he invited.
The Chinaman disposed himself deliberately, bolt upright on the edge of a chair, and folded his hands under his sleeves.
"I got tlee t'ousand dollar," he announced abruptly.
"That is very nice," observed the Colonel. "It is a large sum."
"Yes," agreed Sing Toy. "I save'm wages. I wo'k for you long-time—fifteen year."
"Is it that long?" commented the Colonel, in order to say something. He had as yet no clue to the purpose of this ceremonial vist.
"You go bloke now, mebbe," continued Sing Toy, not as asking a question but as making an assertion.
"What!" responded the Colonel, blankly.
"Yes, you go bloke. I sabe. I see. Every place you stop wo'k. No have party. No paint barn. Veg'table man. Cunnel velly sad. Walk alound head down. No smile. No joke. No laugh. I sabe. I no likeum." He smiled with the hilarious cheerfulness of the Oriental who is trying to be sympathetic. "You no ketchum money at bank any more. I sabe. My cousin wo'k at bank. Dat all light. He no tell Melican man."
"Well I'll be" began the Colonel, staring with new eyes at his imperturbable servant.
"You wait," commanded Sing Toy; "I got tlee t'ousand dollar. I got no use for dat money. You take 'um. I got lots fliends, got lots money, in Chinatown. You tell me how much you want. I get 'um."
As the meaning of this speech finally reached the Colonel, he half started impulsively from his seat, then sank back, and the tears started in his eyes.
"You don't understand the situation, Sing Toy," he said. "I could offer you no security for your money—you sabe security? You might lose it all."
"China boy no want seculity," averred Sing Toy. "He know you pay all light."
The Colonel choked, and openly touched his eyes with his handkerchief, for recent events had keyed him tense. He told Sing Toy that the situation was not as bad as all that; but that he appreciated the offer, and would remember it if the need arose. Sing Toy listened with unmoved countenance, then arose.
"All light," said he. "Now you joke. You laugh," and he waddled out.
The Colonel watched his broad brocaded back as it disappeared through the doorway.
"By Jove, Allie, he's right!" he cried. "But isn't he a dear!—and who in the wide world would have thought"
That evening's visit of the cook was the turning point in the Colonel's adjustment to the new state of things. His raw and sore spirit had needed just that touch of personal affection and trust. He began to take a constructive interest in the new economies; he allowed Allie to plan openly with him, and incidentally he acquired a great respect for that person's practical knowledge; his incipient distrust of people's attitude toward or opinion of himself vanished, and he met everybody with a return of his old confident friendliness; the growing sense of oppression under the burden of his debt lightened. So the end of our two years finds the Peytons and the Rancho de la Corona del Monte.
The experiment at the Bungalow had prospered. With vigour and sufficient money all the obstacles that had before proved fatal now dissipated like smoke. Proper fences well maintained kept out the rabbits; the ground squirrels had been diminished by use of poison at certain seasons of the year, and the attentions of a boy and a Flobert rifle at all others. The latter improvement was Kenneth's idea. He had been so recently a small boy himself that he was able to judge; and he canvassed gravely all the workingmen for hire; not in examination of their capacity, but as to their ownership of a small boy of appropriate age and disposition. This individual, when found, was installed, with his incidental wife and small daughter, as a permanency. Kenneth next purchased a Flobert and a quantity of .22 shorts. The youngster then took a course of training under personal supervision for some months on accurate shooting, safe handling, and identification of fauna; after which he was turned loose as official pest exterminator. Kenneth inaugurated a very business-like system to which he and Timmy adhered gravely. The cartridges Kenneth doled out a box at a time, charging Timmy for them at wholesale rates. The latter brought in his bag daily and was credited on the book he and Kenneth kept between them according to a fixed schedule. He was on honour to ask bounty only for creatures killed on the property. The schedule was rather complicated, and was the resuit of many solemn confabs. Ground quirrels, gophers, moles, rabbits, bluejays and the two falcons were always on the list. Certain species, such as linnets or blackbirds, or quail, were fair game only at seasons of ripe fruit or grain. The grand prizes were, of course, coyotes and wildcats; but they were naturally somewhat in the category of unattainable ideals. The results were a straight-shooting small boy and a diminution of pests below the point of destructiveness.
There was now a sufficiency of water better used. The original spring had been greatly increased by tunneling, and the water brought down in cement conduits that obviated waste. Cultivation now was possible on a better scale. After the water had been laid on the soil, it was harrowed over and over, so that the earth was no longer allowed to bake hard. It was therefore necessary to irrigate but four or five times a year instead of twice a week. Brainerd had known well enough that all this should be done; but he had not possessed the means, financial or physical.
As a consequence of its new impetus the Bungalow was prosperous. It had changed its very appearance. The sage desert had been pushed back: and the gray Old Man brush had given place to flourishing citrus trees. The dry, powdery hard pan from which it had wrested its desiccated existence had turned into a brown, moist productive soil that justified the visionary dream that it was richer than the bottom lands. Now that every drop of the water was not needed for the crops, Daphne was permitted a garden. She went at it with enthusiasm. In the old California fashion everybody contributed plants, shrubs, or trees from their own over-flowing, older-established gardens. A little cultivation and water did the rest. Quick-growing vines, like the passion flower, the honeysuckle, the solanum, flung themselves over the low house. The dooryard was bright with strepthasolum, nasturtiums, plumbago, hybiscus and all that brilliant company. In the swift fashion of the country the trees struck vigorous root and began to grow, not by inches but by feet.
Kenneth reported to his father every week, as they had arranged. Every cent of expenditure was set down. Each month the two spent some hours tabulating; segregating the items so that in the final analysis only those having to do specifically with the commercial productiveness could be charged against the success of the experiment. And by the end of this two years it could plainly be seen that the experiment was going to be a success. The point was proved beyond a doubt.
The possibilities that opened before Patrick Boyd's vision were tremendous. If twenty acres would in the future support a family as well or better than a thousand acres had in the past, there was no limit to the country's development. And if this powdery, sagebrush upland was valuable—why, there were millions of acres like that! All that was needed was the water. A few artesian wells would supply that; or, if artesian wells did not work out, there was plenty in the mountains. That would require big handling, a utilities company to construct the necessary works on a large enough scale, to pipe it down, distribute it. Boyd's constructive mind saw the chances to sell cheap land dear.
But the best chance, and the nearest at hand, was undoubtedly Corona del Monte. It lay at the borders of the town. Its rolling, oak-dotted slopes were admirably graded for the water. In its limits it had quantities of all types of land. At the present time it was worth on an average throughout about fifteen dollars an acre. Divided into proved small farms, with the water laid down, Boyd thought it should average two or three hundred. Thousands of acres! The strip nearest town would be a veritable gold mine when people discovered, as discover they must, that here they could live in beautiful flower-smothered homes, under the fairest sky in the world and make a living while doing it!
The only question was water. The needs of the cattle were filled by windmills and surface wells. The small amount of garden irrigation at the ranch came from similar sources. It sufficed for this purpose; but it no more than sufficed. In dry years it ran rather short. And the difficulty was that few individual twenty acres were self contained. That is to say, the ranch gardens themselves depended on wells scattered over five hundred acres or so.
There was plenty of water in the Sur to be had for the tunneling; but that would require a very considerable outlay of money and time. The artesian possibilities had never been tried. That possibility should first be proved or disproved.
Boyd shared none of these conclusions and speculations with his son. He did not even confide to the young man that in his opinion the experiment at the Bungalow had succeeded. Why, he could not have said; except this was opening out as a big thing, and his strong instinct in big things was to work close mouthed until the plan was fully formed. Therefore Kenneth was still in ignorance that his father was convinced. Boyd moved slowly and cautiously in order not to arouse any suspicions. The chance was too good to share with anybody. He had worked it out for himself, and he intended that he—and his son—should reap all the benefit. To accomplish that he would have to get hold of the land before anybody conceived the idea that it was good for anything but a cattle range. This part of it, he concluded, would not be too difficult. The country was sound asleep, and—so Boyd was convinced—would not awaken to its possibilities without considerable yawning and stretching. There was all leisure to move safely and slowly. Through his talks with Kenneth, and by virtue of his position in the bank, he was thoroughly familiar with the situation. Corona del Monte was lately managing to get along: but it skirted the ragged edge. Unless methods were to change fundamentally, these small economies and retrenchments would suffice only in calm weather. Come a time of stress, or another bad year, and the craft would founder—or could be made to founder. Boyd knew that a man like Colonel Peyton would never change methods fundamentally. It was, in his opinion, merely a question of awaiting the right moment.
For it had reached this point in Boyd's mind. The vision of the possible millions to come to the men who inaugurated the new era had aroused the wolf in him that had been sleeping since its full meal in Traction.
The immediate question, however, was whether artesian water existed below the ranch; or whether irrigation would have to come from the Sur. In the former case there was no hurry about doing anything. In the latter, however, it would be necessary quietly to acquire the necessary rights and rights-of-way before the idea became public. From the scientists he got little satisfaction. This country had never been geologically surveyed. The only point of value he learned was that if the dip was such that artesian water existed in one place, it probably would be found almost anywhere. This was satisfactory. But evidently the only thing to do was to try.
The task of inducing Colonel Peyton to drill was a delicate one. The Colonel was not looking for a chance to make new expenditures. Boyd reached him through Kenneth. It was another delicate task to keep Kenneth from knowing that he was used. Fortunately for Boyd the succession of dry years had shortened the supply in the surface wells. His secret ownership of the Western Construction Company enabled him to tip the balance of decision. They offered the Colonel absurdly low prices and easy terms, with a proviso that he should pay nothing if no water was found. To anybody but the Colonel this would have showed on the face of it as absurd. The Construction Company had to invest in well-boring machinery and some expert assistance; but Boyd did not begrudge that. As for Ephraim Spinner; if he suspected anything queer in this haphazard way of doing business, he gave no indication. He had hitched his wagon to an eastern star of the first magnitude, and he could see no reason for cutting the traces. A rig was erected half way down the knoll, just out of sight of the house, and the operations began.
The rest of Arguello was exactly where it had been two years before. Some of the children had grown up; some had gone away to school or college. Mrs. Carlson's highbrows continued to monkey with the sacred art of poetry. Carlson continued to drink a good deal, play rough games and frequent rough company just to prove that he was not a poet. The Soeiedad came over the mountains and went back again at irregular intervals. The mountains and the sea slumbered on, as did the inhabitants of the little village.
II
But for California herself these two years had meant the changing of the gray dawn to rose. She was stirring from the sleep that had fallen upon her after her hectic carouse in the days of 'Forty-nine. The reason might have been sought and found in the little bungalow farm on which Brainerd had spent so many years. The sagebrushers had ceased living on jack-rabbits and wild honey. They had discovered the value of irrigation; the fact that fruit trees grew better out of the bottom lands, because in the bottom lands the water level is too variable; that values are to be found in apparent desert or gravel wash; that improvements are possible in the quality of fruit; that there are moisture-conserving possibilities in plain cultivation; in short, that the land responds to intelligent treatment. Southern California was beginning to be dotted with little settlements. The old careless, lusty, lavish days were everywhere passing. These discoveries, simple as Columbus's egg, had rarely been made by the older inhabitants. They were made by the immigrants.
These immigrants were of a class never seen before. They were mainly people with considerable or even abundant means who had come to California for a change of climate. They had invalids in the family; or they were plain sick of bad weather and saw no reason why, having retired from business or sold their farm, they should continue to live in it. These people bought places and small farms or orange groves, not primarily with the idea of making a profit out of them, but simply to have pleasant and beautiful places in which to live. They made of them bowers of blossom and vine; and incidentally they experimented in fine fruits, or especial crops of some sort, or just to see whether anything would grow in the most unlikely places. In this, the most favourable atmosphere for leisurely experiment, grew finally a great body of information and accomplishment. The thickskinned, dry, sour California oranges, and the overgrown, spongy lemons had been improved until at the New Orleans exposition they took premiums from the world. The dried fruit industry had been invented, and then proved. And so, still uncorrelated, still scattered, the elements of modern California were being worked out. Actual profits were being made here and there! Moreover, they were large profits!
The news of these things began to trickle back to the East. Tourists came, looked, saw, returned, and boosted. Of those who listened, the many smiled and murmured something about "California Liars," but the few took a trip for themselves. The rumour thus grew rapidly. The despised "cattle country" of Southern California took on a new interest. People who were not tourists actually began to come out, not to spend the winter, but to look around. They made the astonishing discovery that the summers also were pleasant! Heretofore the tourist had fled home on the approach of spring. If the winter was warm, the summer must be intolerably hot. Nobody but bookish experts knew anything about a cooling polar current. After they had looked around, and acquired much knowledge and statistics, they returned home. And whereas the simon-pure tourist had noted and told about the birds and flowers and sunshine, this new type of visitor had bestowed most of his attention on acreage, and costs, and methods, and profits.
Thus in these two years the travel to California had wonderfully increased. The old regulars were augmented by the professional tourists who abandoned Europe for a season to see this newly talked-of land; by the wealthy business man who had heard so much of the new country that he thought he might as well combine business with pleasure and take a little jaunt to see if there was anything to be picked up; by the one-time visitor who had liked it and had gone away reluctantly in the dream at coining back if he could afford it, but who now plucked up hope of coming back to make a living; by invalids and climate seekers following the glowing stories; by hundreds of farmers who had long been sick of the uncertainties and discomforts of their lives, and were now pursuing the rumour of heaven. And also, just a trifle later, by the big capitalists and the little sharpers who followed the scent of prosperity to see what could be done about it.
Such movements come to notice suddenly, though they may have been in process and under way for some time. They resemble in this the dropping of stones into a puddle. One may drop in a great many without the slightest visible result. Then all at once they appear, and every pebble adds to the size of the pile.
By good fortune the season in which the rock pile began to show was one of early rains. Never before had the land been lovelier. From the Mexican border north the country was green and moist and warm. The orange groves were heavy with yellow fruit. The clear, sparkling streams from the mountains ran bank full. The air was like crystal, and through its unbelievable clarity one could see the ranch and farmhouses standing like toys amid the greenery of their trees and vines. There was in this air an exhilaration, an infusion of optimism. The most staid and grumpy old banker from the East would listen, with tolerant amusement to be sure, to the enthusiastic prophecies of the new species called the "booster." People drove about in fringe-topped surries, or rode abroad on horseback, and were invited in to "pick as many as you can use," in the lavish, hospitable habit of the day. They saw evidences of fertility and evidences of comfort and a pleasant life. It was only natural to inquire as to values, to talk things over, finally to figure on such matters as how many people the Los Angeles valley could support. It was a dull imagination that could not foresee the time when the demand for land would be very much greater than it was then. People gradually ceased thinking so much of what the soil could produce and began to figure what someone would be willing to pay for it next year. From that to speculative buying was a short step. The wealthy tourist, or rather the tourist with a little means, "took a flyer" for the fun of it; the man who thought himself shrewd, and was always willing to make his pleasure trips pay for themselves, looked about to see what was likely to rise. Everybody agreed that there was surely going to be a big population. The world would not be able to resist.
The average man bought town lots rather than country property because that was something he thought he could understand. Demand created supply. In orange groves and wheat fields outside the towns a crop of little white stakes began to appear. The prices were low as yet. Your winter visitor bought a few lots on spec, much as he might buy a handful of white chips. The small real estate men were happy in a small way; nothing serious, however.
But now another element of the complex situation developed and showed its strength. The transcontinental railroads began to fight each other. Within the past two or three years, as has been shown, the passenger traffic had greatly increased. The railroad heads began to see possibilities on an unhoped for scale. Naturally each wanted to hog it all. And as naturally each began to cut into his rivals by every means in his power. The word propaganda had not yet come into general use; but the thing itself was done to the limit. In every wayside station, almost in every country corner-store of the blizzard-ridden East hung vivid lithographs showing mammoth clusters of fruit, a dazzle of flowers to put your eyes out, and invariably a young lady of rich glowing complexion, toothful smile, and a redundant figure. Small circular inserts around the border depicted bathing in January and the ocean at the same time; showed small snapshots of the future life labelled "ranching in California"; and invariably offered a snowscape with a muffled, shivering, red nosed, belly-deep person shovelling a path to the barn. This last labelled in large type YOURSELF!, and you were urged to come to California where perpetual summer reigns. These vivid posters were backed up by tons of patent insides distributed gratis to the country newspapers. They were of course a balderdash of super-optimism. Read to-day in the light of our accurate knowledge of what is possible and what is not; what the country will do, and what it will not; what the climate is, and what it is not, these perfervid booster articles sound ridiculous enough. But it must be remembered that then California was considered so remote as almost to be outside the United States. It carried over an overload of romance from the times of the 'Forty-niners, Vigilante days, the period of the bonanza kings. People will believe anything that is far enough away. Beside which this advertising was helped by the constant publication of silly letters. Most people had in those days never been far from home. California was so different, her winter climate offered so heavenly a contrast, her beauties were so unbelievable to one accustomed only to sober landscapes that the visitor became rhapsodical. He—or she—wrote reams of silly, sloppy, sentimental stuff, mostly adjectives and adverbs. Probably he—or she—had rarely before left a pavement, and certainly had no basis on which to found the enthusiastic judgments so blithely passed out. Hundreds of these private letters were printed: as letters from the front were printed during the war. And they carried great weight because the writers were "disinterested," save the mark!
But the railroads went much further in their bid for custom than mere propaganda. Propaganda might stimulate travel, but it would not necessarily stimulate travel over your particular road. Naturally we are not considering maps where your own blood-red line darts straight as an arrow to its objective, while your rival's thin black thread goes all around Robin Hood's barn and finally snarls itself up so badly you can't tell it from a state boundary line. Everybody can have them. The road had to do something the other roads could not do. For example, sell cheaper tickets.
Thus began the great rate war of the 'eighties. It is now forgotten by the public, but at the time it attracted a lot of attention. The thought seemed to be that if you got people to going on your line, at no matter what present cost, they would forever after continue to do so, and your rival would always run dark trams. It was a nice spirited contest while it lasted. We have not space to go into details. Suffice it to say that it took six months to hammer its futility into the heads of the railroad chiefs; that fares went down to five dollars for a round trip from Missouri River points, and on one day only it could be had at one dollar.
They travelled by thousands, people who had never been a hundred miles from home in their lives. They packed the carpet bags, and put up cooked provisions in boxes and hied them forth. If the railroads really wanted volume of traffic, they got it. Most of these new tourists did the usual tourist things; but a certain proportion looked upon the land and found it so much better than they had known back home that they raked and they scraped and they bought. Indeed, so large was the crop of investors this year that away back in Chicago the professional "boomers" heard of it. And as the Chicago boom of that period was on the ebb, they in turn packed their grips and their methods and came west. Undoubtedly they hoped, and expected, to make a tidy little clean-up on a carefully nursed rise; they could hardly have anticipated the effect of the climate on their tender plant. It shot up like Jack's beanstalk.
III [1]
The boom and boom methods were under way and in full swing before even a ripple reached Arguello. People knew vaguely that there was something doing down South; but Arguello was cut off from easy communication, so that she did not at once feel the impulse of new movements. Her inhabitants did not travel much, except in the course of business; and those who did travel were not of the type to be interested in nor to catch new methods. It remained for Ephraim Spinner, the man of quick perceptions and quicksilver imagination, to see and bring back with him an idea. This idea he hastened to share with Boyd.
"It is the waking up we've been waiting for!" cried Spinner. "And we can be in on the ground floor, if we want to be. It hasn't struck here, yet; but it is going to."
Boyd listened attentively; made no decisive comment, but took a trip south. Spinner offered to accompany him and show him the ropes, but he preferred to go alone. The morning after his arrival he breakfasted in good season, and sauntered down Spring Street to see what he could see.
He had not long to search. Down the street came a brass band dressed in gaudy gold and white uniforms, blaring stridently to the zenith. At its head strutted a drum major with tall bearskin shako, and whirling and throwing aloft a brass-headed baton that glittered in the sun. Behind it marched two men dressed as flunkeys in wine-coloured, brass-buttoned, stripe-waistcoated liveries, with white stockings. They bore an outspread banner of white bearing a legend in gold:
BANKSIA HEIGHTS SALE OF LOTS TO-DAY
FREE RIDE AND FREE LUNCH
Next in line pranced a pair of milk-white horses caparisoned in red-lacquered harness and drawing a "low-necked hack" on the back seat of which lolled two individuals resplendent in shiny top hats and frock coats. After them trailed a long procession of surries and other vehicles. As these evidently represented the free ride advertised on the banner, Boyd stepped off the curb toward one of them. Instantly it pulled up, and he climbed aboard.
A half hour later he found himself at Banksia Heights. The procession had wound its noisy way here and there in the downtown streets of the city, displaying its banner, dispensing impartially its pandemonium, collecting here and there—on the strength of the free ride and the free lunch—occupants for the long string of vehicles. It was a gorgeous day, bright and mild, typical of March in Southern California. Boyd was interested in the crowd that debarked at Banksia Heights. They were many, and a good proportion looked prosperous, but they had most evidently come for the lark and the picnic and the free lunch. It did not worry them one bit that they were accepting what amounted to hospitality from a stranger under what equally amounted to false pretences. For not one of them had the faintest notion of investing in Banksia Heights.
But neither did it seem to worry the two men in the shiny silk hats. Indeed, they looked rather pleased than otherwise as they superintended the debarking of the band from the omnibus that had picked it up after its processional function was over.
"Get under that oak," they instructed the drum major, "out of the sun; and just raise hell." Which same they certainly did. The leaves of the oak tree shivered in their brassy blasts; and the idly waiting crowd thrilled to the desired supernormal simply because each and every one of them had been brought up on country circuses, and the blatant blare of such a band would thus ever possess the power to quicken the blood.
The land sloped away gently toward the distant sea, spread out like a carpet. Acres of lupin, blue as the heavens; acres of golden poppies yellower than the soft sunlight; acres more of yellow violets or varicoloured bellflowers rolled away over the low rises; and the squares of grove or grain, the gleaming white of houses, the lazy smokes of the city lay in the mellow sunshine. The clear liquid notes of meadowlarks made themselves heard in spite of the band. Back of all rose the Coast Range over whose nearer foothills could be discerned the wild lilac or mountain laurel, the wild pea and gooseberry among the chaparral. Stimulated and upheld by the familiar band and the prospects of the free lunch, the tourists looked about them and felt something of the spell of the country's beauty. For it is a singular fact that the average tourist never sees anything unless measures are taken. He is a good deal like a dog that way. If we are to believe what dogs tell us, there are few things they enjoy more than a good walk with plenty of smells to investigate. As such is the case, one would think dogs would go on many walks; but they rarely do, unless their master takes them. Tourists are good conscientious beasts, also. They will take infinite trouble to go anywhere any guidebook or railway folder tells them they ought to go; and they will spend any amount of money and personal discomfort to see any waterfall, or busted adobe, or view, or prehistoric ash barrel that any half-way competent authority will tell them about; and they will pay prices per hour to be driven any approved drives whereon they exclaim over whatever the driver points out, or will remain timidly silent if he does not point out anything. But they very rarely go out and find things for themselves, and they rarely see country. Between stations on the trains they read books or play cards—unless of course the railway folders tell them to observe. When the train stops they come to, and hang out the windows, and stare fascinated at the newsstand, or the station building (which needs painting), or the buildings across the street. They would never have thought of going out to Banksia Heights, or anything similar, unless lured thereto by the band and the free lunch; but once having arrived there they could not help but be influenced, each according to his receptivity, by the charm and peace and mellowness of the day.
The taller of the two men in silk hats looked on this assemblage with a satisfaction that at first was not shared by his colleague.
"There's not three people in this crowd who have come out to look at lots!" the latter confided, disgustedly. "The most of them are just out for a free picnic. They don't know one earthly thing about real estate—or California."
This was the owner of the property: that is to say, he had paid a small amount down, and was expecting to clean up at a profit before the next payment came due.
"Just exactly what we want," asserted the other, shrewdly. "That's the sort of fellow who thinks he's smarter than any other. I've handled this sort before. There's two types here: the real green ones, and the wealthy, superior ones who've just come out to see the thing work, and are too smart to come in. Like that fellow over there," said the auctioneer, indicating Patrick Boyd. "Know who he is?"
"Not a notion. But I saw Colonel Carstair—you know, the banker from St. Paul. He's an old friend of mine. I told him if he saw anything that looked good to him at the auction to bid it in and hold it for a rise. I told him he needn't pay a cent on it—just to write out a check and hand it in for appearance sake and I'd destroy it."
"What did he say?"
"Nothing much. But he's here."
"Well, they've gawped around enough. Let's get at it."
The auctioneer mounted a rostrum near the centre of the tract. Clerks took their places at tables below. He held up his hand, and the band stopped with a blat. Behind the rostrum hung a huge canvas marked as a plot. An assistant placed the tip of a long pole against one of the lots; at the same time another assistant with a flag stationed himself on the actual lot to be sold.
"Now, ladies and gentlemen, "began the salesman, pushing his tall hat back in an engaging fashion. "I want to make you a little talk in general before getting down to brass tacks and the things that interest us all the most. I can make it very short, because you've got it right in front of your eyes; I refer to California and its future; and especially Los Angeles." He went on briefly, as he had said, to point out climate, soil, productivity, and future, together with a few convincing statistics. When he had finished he leaned forward and flashed his teeth in a friendly fashion. "That's off our minds. But it's true, and you know it's true. But what we are interested in is Banksia Heights, and especially in that part of it where the young man is holding the flag. It is, as you see, in the natural line of growth of what is soon to be a metropolis of the Pacific Coast. Plans are already drawn, and can be inspected in our city office, for all the usual and necessary public improvements. I don't think anybody present has ever seen a fairer outlook, felt against his cheek more salubrious breezes, planted his feet on soil better adapted to the establishment of a home. Now as to this lot. It is one of the finest on the tract. Its purchase carries with it the privilege of taking the next two at any time during the next week and at the same price. Somebody make a bid. Quick."
A lank saturnine individual, who had been openly sneering around since his arrival, promptly spoke up in a loud voice.
"Five dollars!" he cried.
The auctioneer stood on tiptoe to see the speaker. He recognized him at once as the owner of a rival tract who was trying thus at once to cast discredit on values, and also to start the bidding on so low a scale that it could never mount to desired heights.
"Thank you! Thank you, sir!" cried back the auctioneer, with every appearance of sincerity. He turned to the others as though taking them into his confidence. "Friends, you see standing here before you a poor, forlorn, broken-winded, shattered wreck from Kansas. I do not know him personally, but I can tell he comes from Kansas by his thin gaunt form, his haggard features, and his pinched nose. Half starved from living on a soil that can produce nothing better than rattlesnakes, his health broken down by blizzards, and his bank account busted by bad crops in the off years and grasshoppers in the on years, he has wandered out here to buy a home and mend his fortune. He says that he has only five dollars left, all that his folly in not coming to California in the first place has spared him of a handsome fortune. He offers it all here—all he has left in the world—for a home in Banksia Heights. Don't outbid him, friends! Don't, I beg of you, ladies and gentlemen! I declare this lot sold, as an act of charity, to our bankrupt, broken-winded, deplorable friend from Kansas. John, move the flag to lot 8. What name, please?"
But the rival had sneaked away amid the delighted laughter of the crowd. Lot 8 was put up. After some hesitation a solid respectable looking man with the appearance of a small-town grocer bid a hundred and fifty dollars. Everybody looked at him; but he bore inspection well. There were dozens like him, all about. Nevertheless he was a hired capper. The boom real estate man was the precursor of the movie director in his appreciation of the value of types.
"My dear sir!" cried the auctioneer, disgustedly. "You don't realize. I am not offering you this map. I am offering a genuine fifty-foot lot, made out of dirt. Come now, let's have a real offer."
Boyd, wandering around, had unexpectedly run into three of his old cronies, namely Saxon, Marcus Oberman, and George Scott.
"Well, well!" he cried. "What in thunder are you three terrapins doing down here? I thought you never got more than ten miles from the Fremont bar?"
"What are you doing here yourself?" countered Saxon. "The same to you."
"Oh, I just came down on business. Saw this procession going by, and thought I'd come along and see the fun. Great show, isn't it?"
At the auctioneer's last appeal a voice spoke up from the outskirts of the crowd.
"One hundred and seventy-five," it stated with deliberate dignity.
"Hanged if that isn't Jimmy Carstair!" cried Boyd, delightedly.
"Who's Jimmy Carstair?" asked Scott.
The others stared at him incredulously.
"Jimmy Carstair? You must know him! He's one of the richest men in St. Paul!"
"Oh, him!" said Scott with new respect.
"I wonder what he's doing in this," speculated Boyd. "He generally knows what is what. Let's see if he really wants this lot, or is bidding for fun. Get out of sight, fellows. One hundred and eighty!" he called.
But he had been seen and recognized by others in the crowd, lesser fry, taught by the popular periodicals of the day to look up to "Captains of Industry." These began to buzz to each other. If the big men were interested, there must be something in it.
"Two hundred," spoke up some one from the middle of the crowd. The auctioneer took a look to see that this was not one of his various cappers, and was immensely heartened to discover that it was not.
"Two hundred and ten," spoke up one of the latter on receipt of an almost imperceptible sign. It was time to feel out the temper of the crowd a little.
"This is too silly!" cried the auctioneer, with an appearance of vexation. "If some of you don't look out, this bargain is going to go off and hit you." He leaned over and appeared to consult the owner, who shook his head. "Well," he said impatiently, "there's no accounting for a man's conscience. If this property was mine, I'd call the thing off right here and now. He says he's advertised this sale as being without reserve and he's going to stick to it, if he has to give them away. I wouldn't do it, and I'll tell you that frankly."
"It is good property," said Saxon, loud enough so that several heard him. Indeed, it was good property: the only difficulty being that there were several hundred miles of exactly similar property lying all about. "I wonder if Carstair really means business," he added.
The auctioneer and the owner were anxiously wondering the same thing. His single bid had a fine moral effect, but it would be lost if the first raise were to discourage him utterly. However, Carstair was a shrewd amn. He realized that if the sale were to go well, this first lot sold would be one of the cheapest: subsequent sales would go more or less on its price as a basis. On the other hand if the sale were a failure, he would be nothing out of pocket. He accepted this certainty as one of the small perquisites of his wealth and prominence.
"Two twenty-five," he pronounced briefly.
"By Jove," said George Scott, impressed. "Carstair has never played a dead card that I've known of. He must think mighty well of this."
Nobody was aware of the fact that the mighty Carstair was only another capper. Carstair would have denied it with heat. Yet such was the case: and the principals glowed with pride and joy over the success of their ruse. The auctioneer quickly knocked down the lot to his distinguished client; and ordered the flag to another lot some distance from the first. The owner signalled him. He bent over to hear.
"Better adjourn for lunch," he was advised. "Let 'em circulate and talk."
The auctioneer nodded.
"You're right. Wait a second. Best to taper off a little for the best effect."
He straightened up and at once began to talk:
"Mothers! Fathers!" he cried. "Husbands who intend to become fathers! Look at this offer and weep for joy! The owner and founder of Banksia Heights will give to the first child born in Banksia one lot on the main street, just as soon as we learn the name of the said child to put it in a deed. And we don't care whether it is born in a manger or in the open air. We do know that this offer is free for all, and open to all competitors. Those who are thinking seriously of having one. will do well to grasp at this offer. We will now adjourn to the viands. Eat hearty: and remember to think how fine it would be to eat all your meals under your own vine and fig tree with the mocking bird carolling outside and the soft breezes from the Pacific fanning your brow."
The lunch was a grand rush for sandwiches, coffee, cake and fruit, together with a quantity of red wine. Many of the Middle Westerners shied violently at the latter; others partook of it with an air of guilty bravado; but there is no doubt it added a pleasing exotic tinge to the occasion. People circulated freely, and talked. It became known that Carstair, who had bought the first lot, was the richest man in St. Paul; and that one of the men who had bid against him was Patrick Boyd, the traction magnate. Carstair soon recognized his fellow plutocrats and joined them. The quartette stood in a loose group, smoking their cigars, while an awe-stricken fringe—of which naturally they were unconscious—hung around, silently gathering wisdom. Carstair was an obese and rather pompous man.
"I think well of the property," he stated ponderously, in answer to a question. As a matter of fact he had not thought of the property at all until that morning, when he had come out to oblige his friend and on the strength of free ride, free lunch, and a possibility of free profits. But it would never do to let anybody think that Carstair would take a snap for chicken feed, nor that Carstair would buy anything on impulse, nor without due and weighty deliberation. "Los Angeles," he went on, "is certain to have a great future; and this tract is situated in a particularly fortunate location."
"The soil is excellent," remarked Saxon, solely on the basis of a soft gopher-digging on which he happened to be standing. He stirred it wisely with his cane.
"Ought to grow good oranges here," said Oberman, vaguely. He knew nothing of oranges or their needs; but he did remember seeing orange trees growing out of the ground somewhere. This was also ground.
"You can't do much with one fifty-foot lot," observed Boyd.
"You forget I have the privilege of taking the next two lots at the same price," replied Carstair.
The remark was purely defensive; but a buzz took through the crowd the information that Carstair was buying the adjoining lots as well. Judging now that the conditions were right, the auctioneer again mounted the block.
The bidding started in well. Several lots were sold to outsiders at approximately the same prices. To the surprise of his companions Saxon suddenly began to bid. He procured a lot at two hundred and ten dollars.
"I'll take the rest of the block at the same price, if you'll let it go," he announced. "No use going in unless you get a piece big enough to count as an investment," he told his companions.
The auctioneer pretended to consult for some time with his principal.
"In my opinion," he stated at length, "this is too low a price for so large a piece of property. But my owner says to let it go to Mr. Charles Saxon, not because he is the celebrated New York capitalist of that name, but because he had sense enough to see the chance to make money on a sure thing. Sold to Mr. Saxon, all of Block C."
Thus encouraged the bidding became brisk. By the time the sun had reached the west fully a quarter of the property had been sold to bonafide purchasers, and only a few lots had been by circumstances forced into fake sales to cappers. The owner was already ahead of the game. The auctioneer too was pleased, for his commissions were fat. After announcing that the sale would be continued from map in the down town office, he called it a day.
On the drive back to town Scott and Oberman joked Saxon unmercifully over his purchase: telling him that he was either a hick to be stampeded by a band and oratory, or that he slavishly followed the lead of the St. Paul magnate. Saxon good humouredly defended himself.
"I've seen worse hunches than to follow Carstair," he said. "But it doesn't need a seventh son to see that that stuff is good. It's bound to go up; and I never had any objections to making my expenses on a trip."
The next morning the men came together in the lobby of the hotel. They were smoking their after breakfast cigars, and they felt leisurely and expansive. Somebody wondered what they had best do to pass the time.
"Let's go around to the Banksia office and see what it looks like there," suggested Saxon.
They laughed at him, accusing him of being anxious about his new purchase; but each had a secret urge to the same effect.
The offices of the Banksia Heights, even at this early hour, seemed very busy. There were a number of well-dressed people standing around reading the paper, or staring rather idly at the huge tract map that hung on the blank side of the wall. A half-dozen others were leaning over the counter talking earnestly to the clerks. Some of them were genuine buyers completing or adding to their purchases of the day before; while still others had never even seen the tract, but were nevertheless just picking 'em from the map. Saxon led his friends to the big chart; where, after some trouble, he identified his own property. The pieces sold were coloured red; those reserved for schools, engine houses, and other public purposes were marked in blue. After some study Saxon decided that his block was exceptionally well situated.
In the meantime Colonel Carstair had trundled in and, without looking to right or left, had steered to the counter.
"Young man," he said impressively to the youth who hurried forward. "I want to see your employer in person. Carstair is the name, James Carstair of St. Paul."
The roomful of people stopped short what they were doing, and gazed curiously and respectfully at the owner of this redoubted name. The tract owner hastened from his inner office all smiles without, and somewhat flurried within. After the first greeting the great man dropped his voice to confidential tones.
"Now about those lots I bid in yesterday," he said. "Of course our understanding was that you would hold them for me on a turnover without expense."
"Yes, that's right of course, Mr. Carstair. Glad to do these little things for an old friend," replied the owner, wondering what he was driving at, and a little anxious.
"Well, I've been thinking it over. I like this town, and I believe in its future. I believe those lots are a sound investment. I will take title on them and pay up cash, if I can make the proper terms with you. Of course you understand that I bid them up pretty high yesterday to get your sale started right. Let me in on the ground floor and I'll talk business with you."
The owner's eyes gleamed and his heart leaped in triumph; though he took care to maintain an indifferent exterior.
"It wouldn't do to give you a lower price, you know," said he. "The price—well, I'll tell you. Suppose I give you a commission on the sale. You are really selling to yourself, you know."
A half minute later the interested spectators saw the magnate pull out his check book and apparently buy some more lots. This impression was confirmed when the owner walked to the map and drew a red cross on the rest of the lots in the block containing Carstair's purchase of the day before.
"I think you ought to protect your investment with the adjoining lots," he had said to Carstair. "I'll just reserve them for a few days until you can make up your mind." But to the bystanders it looked as though the St. Paul banker had actually extended his purchase.
The effect was immediate. A buzz of conversation broke out. Several who had been hesitating made up their minds. Marcus Oberman sidled up and laid a forefinger on the block next that apparently purchased by Carstair.
"How mooch dose lots?" he asked.
Shortly he came back, breathing heavily, having purchased a half block.
"You bed your life Chimmy Carstair he knows," he said.
They drifted out eventually, chaffing each other good-naturedly. The owner, watching from his inside office, called in one of the younger men.
"See that old cuss that went out?" he asked. "Well, did you notice the gang he was with? All right. The Dutchman has half of Block E, and the little fellow with the sandy moustache has all of Block C. The Dutchman is Marcus Oberman, the brewer; and the little fellow is Charley Saxon. You look up the Judge and sick him on them. Tell him to buy back one or the other of their holdings; I don't care which. Tell him to offer four hundred per lot; but to raise 'em to five or six, if he has to. Get busy."
So it happened that Marcus Oberman sold half his lots that evening at the same price he had given for all of them. The purchaser was a very eminent looking jurist, who was a fine testimonial to the Banksia Height's owner's ability to pick types. It was the brewer's turn to crow; and he took full advantage of it in a ponderous fashion. Everybody in the dining room, the lobby and the bar heard all about it. The rumour quickly spread that "Banksia" is selling on the outside.
Just for curiosity, he told himself, Boyd drifted around to the real estate office the following morning. The place was crowded. He pushed his way to the counter and authoritatively signalled the owner, who happened—just happened—to pop out of his cubby hole as the traction man approached.
"How much are lots this morning?" he demanded.
"The very choicest ones are gone. There is a big demand. But we are still selling all alike for two hundred and fifty dollars."
Boyd looked at the chart. Its red patches were now labelled prominently with the names of the purchasers. All the centre part around the block controlled by Carstair had been sold out.
"Well, I'll take a flyer on those two lots in Block I," he said, drawing out his check book.
His companions caught him at it, and chaffed him unmercifully.
"I'm just taking it for a little turn," he explained. "I like to make my expenses. Can't lose much. It's fun to play the game. Look here: George is the only one of us not in this. Aren't you going to sit in the game, George? Going to be the only one out?"
They turned their batteries on George Scott. He was in the minority. Soon he threw up his hands.
"All right, all right! I'll buy one of the damn things." He studied the map, then made his way to the counter. "I'll take one lot next Mr. Boyd's in I," he said. The clerk filled in the contract of sale. Scott looked at it. "See here, young man," he cried. "You've got this all wrong. You're charging me four hundred dollars."
"Yes sir, that's the price," said the young man.
Scott raised an indignant protest. The owner came out of his little office.
"The price of lots has been raised throughout," he told Scott. "We did not intend to do so; but we find that already the central lots are selling like blazes outside. The market and the demand warrants it. Ah, Mr. Boyd, you got your lots not a moment too soon. I'll give you a hundred dollars profit on them and take them back."
But Boyd would not sell. He had fooled George Scott to the tune of considerable money, and he was very much pleased. He chaffed Scott without pity, and fairly forced him to complete the bargain at the new price.
"You won't regret it, Mr. Scott," consoled the owner. "I'll predict you can sell it to-morrow at an advance, if you want to."
Boyd spent three more days in Los Angeles, then returned to Arguello, his head full of thoughts. The Banksia Heights scheme he discovered to be only one of many: and all going strong. In fact the Banksia proposition, as one of the youngest, could hardly be said to be fairly started. The suburban land was almost entirely in the hands of outsiders, who were exploiting it. The original owners had sold out gladly at what they had considered excessive prices. They had held so long that they were about ready to quit in disgust; and they could not take the money quick enough, nor get away fast enough after they had taken it, lest the "tenderfoot" change his mind. The said tenderfoot then proceeded to make a thousand or so per cent. In due time the original holder grew restless and desirous of getting in on a little of this easy money. No reason why he should be out in the cold! So he bought back—sometimes the very land he had sold—for ten, yes, twenty times what he had received for it. And was left with it when the boom broke!
But that was a later development. Now everybody was prosperous because prices were steadily going up, and cash sales were the order of the day. Therefore everybody made money, and had the gold to jingle. Farmers were abandoning their crops to live in town and gamble on real estate. Why not? It was no unusual thing to make a profit between nine o'clock and dinner time. Very little work was being done anywhere. Why work, when you could make a month's wages in an hour, if you just looked sharp? But you could not do it unless you were on the spot. New sales were attended as women go to bargain counters. One trick was to sell half an addition, and then to close the sale; reserving the balance until such time as the outside trading should have raised the public temperature. At the reopening it would be announced that the first ten lots would be sold for, say, $750, after which the flat price would be $1,000. Buy now and make $250. Long lines were formed awaiting the openings of these resales. Places near the head of the lines often commanded a high price. Buyers hired representatives to hold places for them: often one man would have two or three such proxies. They had to be visited often to see that they did not sell out to a rival. It often happened that a place near the head would sell out to a place near the foot at a price representing what would have been a good profit had a lot been bought.
Twenty-five foot lots were sold. Nothing could be built on a twenty-five foot lot: it needed at least one more of its own kind alongside before it could be of any practical good. But some genius discovered that the public did not think in terms of dimensions but of units; and would buy a twenty-five foot lot as quickly and at nearly the same price as one twice as wide.
New additions adopted all sorts of methods to get hold of their first clientele. Elephants and other menagerie animals were used in processions. Often a mass meeting for some worthy or patriotic cause was called, and the business seriously transacted, merely to get the crowd for an after meeting in favour of some new real estate scheme. Here originated the old, old story of the funeral, when the clergyman asked if any one would like to make a few remarks in eulogy of the deceased. As usual everybody was bashful. After a short pause a stranger arose. "As no one seems inclined to say anything," said he, "I'll just fill in the time by telling you of a new addition." Or a sort of lottery idea was used: as for example that all buyers should pay the same price, and then should draw for their land. There were few sales that called for complete payment, though all demanded cash down. Contracts were given with a third paid. Unless a purchaser were known he had to pay in hard dollars. There was no time to cash checks, when the lot might be resold at an advance before the ink dried. For the same reason deeds were rarely recorded.
At first, at the time of Boyd's visit, these town lots were staked out in the suburbs of actual towns. It was conceivable, if not possible, that some day or another they might be occupied. At any rate some sort of a city would always exist near there. But very shortly such foolish conservatism was abandoned. Two things only were necessary to a city—climate and scenery. The little white stakes began to appear in the most unheard of places, miles from any building, absolutely isolated, deprived of any of the natural advantages necessary to human dwelling. But the climate and scenery were good. There were parcels laid aside for the Station, and the Post Office, and the City Hall, and the Court House, and the High School, and heaven knows what else, and people bought the rest in twenty-five foot lots, and the jack rabbits sat under the sagebrush and looked lonesome and wondered what were all those little white stakes.
No bit of country, within the natural habitat of the tourist, was so unpromising, that it could not be sold. It if were a dry wash, they boosted it for its abundance of building material; if in a desert, for its healthful climate; if on a hilltop for its view; if in a swamp for its irrigable possibilities or its opportunities for a harbour. Men would start actual construction on a railroad and carry it forward for miles, knowing perfectly well that it never could pay, aware indeed that they never would finish it, merely in order to help sell land at its alleged terminal- to-be! And they sold them. Why not? The one certain thing was that the East had at last waked up to the fact that it could live in an ideal climate instead of shivering and roasting in the horrible imitation heretofore provided it. Why should any sane man live where he was uncomfortable, when he could live where he was comfortable? No reason. A tremendous shift of population was imminent.
At first some of this land had been bought by people who intended to build houses and live on it. But latterly it was all purchased for resale at a profit to the mythical fellow who was coming after.
IV
In such lively times a space of six months may seem like the passage of years, so far as the stabilizing of conditions goes. It was so in 'Forty-nine; events moved so rapidly that in a half year they had become ancient history. So it was now. After a year of this sort of thing it took unto itself an aspect of permanence. It was the natural condition of life. People living in it came to look on it as the normal and enduring. They called it prosperity: and it was only to be expected, for this was a prosperous country. Everybody was idle, and full of money, and happy. The streets were full. People moved about buoyantly, greeting each other, trading, exchanging wisdom. They stood on the street corners and in the lobbies of the hotels, with expensive cigars in the corners of their mouths, their thumbs tucked in the armholes of their vests. There were a good many heavy watchchains and diamonds. New buggies were flashing about. The streets were perpetually lively with processions of one sort or another—decorated and placarded loads of lumber for the new hotel, escorted by a band: visiting celebrity who has bought property, escorted by a band; announcement of new addition, escorted by a band, and so on. Millionaires of a day, in Van Dyke's expressive phrase; who were yesterday living in little outlying ranches or on windswept farms of the Middle West.
Most of them had acquired titles of one sort or another—Judge, Colonel, General, an occasional humble Captain, and all had gained the respect that goes with money and position. Their opinions were listened to and considered of value. And the people were buying potatoes brought down from Humboldt County, eggs imported from east of the Rockies, meat from Chicago, butter from Oregon. Their orchards and fields were growing up to mallow and mustard. Why work when you can hire somebody else to do it for you?
These new-made magnates were firm in their optimism. Why shouldn't they be? They were millionaires. To be sure they had not the background of experience that comes with most millions: they had not the habit of making considered judgments. Those who had always lived in the country knew nothing of city growths: and those who had always lived in the city were densely ignorant of natural resources or, indeed, whether beans grew in the ground or on trees.
"Don't it just beat hell!" they marvelled; and then loyally answered themselves that it did beat hell, and everything else this side of heaven, naturally, because it was California. It was a normal development, to be expected if you stopped and looked things squarely in the face. The only reason it seemed surprising was that nobody had happened to look things squarely in the face. An occasional shrewd old Yankee felt it was due his traditional sagacity to inquire how long it was going to last.
"Last," they cried, astonished; "why we're just getting into our normal stride. The outside world is just beginning to realize what there is here."
"Well, it certainly is wonderful," the Yankee would hasten to say. But that was not sufficient.
"Wonderful?" they repeated. "I don't think so. Why do you call it wonderful? The only wonderful thing is that it's taken so long for the world to find us out."
Every man carried a long checkbook that stuck out of his breast pocket. One of the favourite gestures of emphasis was to flap this checkbook impressively against the leg or the palm of the hand. A large benign dignity informed the intercourse of the new millionaires.
All this had its effect on those who at first had taken the business too seriously. Owners of tracts began to go crazy and to believe in their own projects. They turned back their money into building huge hotels that could never be filled, casinos, hot springs resorts, any number of gim-cracks to catch the tourist trade. In many instances they borrowed on the money still due them. It will be remembered that most sales were made at a quarter or a third down. There was plenty of money in the banks: just as there was plenty of money—not wealth—everywhere. The oldtimers borrowed it, too, on the security of their lands; and bought town lots because they did not want these strangers to get all the bacon.
There were still some few sane ones, and some partially sane. Fortunately for California many of the former class were in the banks. The semi-sane were business men, conservatives—in the East—who had sense enough to see that this condition could not last forever, but who thought they could guess to a gnat's hair just when the top would be reached. In the meantime they were going to cash in. These wise persons did not stand on the street corners with their thumbs in their armholes: they sat about little tables in the backs of barrooms, and talked in low tones. Most of their talk was in giving reasons to one another of why the top was not coming until next year. When the time came, they intended to get out.
Very few saw the basic facts, or took the trouble to think down to them. Nine tenths of the buyers of real estate were purchasing not for use, but to sell at an advance. The same piece of property cannot go on selling and advancing forever. Since most of these purchases were made on a comparatively small payment, it follows that the moment prices should recede, even a little, most of them would have to be thrown back on the market to render possible the payment of the balances due. There had been more town lots sold than could be settled upon in twenty years, even if every available passenger car on all the railroads were to run westward filled to capacity. But back of it all was the hard fact that they were selling climate and scenery, and there was enough of a supply of climate and scenery to break any market in the world.
- ↑ The author wishes here to repeat his indebtedness to T. S. Van Dyke's "Millionaires of a Day." The sequence of psychology could not be improved upon: indeed, the present author prefers the possibility of a cry of "imitation" to the responsibility of tampering with that sequence.