I
On a wintry and blustering evening in the latter part of February, 1902,Welton and Bob boarded the Union Pacific train en route for California.They distributed their hand baggage, then promptly took their wayforward to the buffet car, where they disposed themselves in theleather-and-wicker armchairs for a smoke. At this time of year thetravel had fallen off somewhat in volume. The westward tourist rush hadslackened, and the train was occupied only by those who had definitebusiness in the Land of Promise, and by that class of wise ones whorealize that an Eastern March and April are more to be avoided than theregulation winter months. The smoking car contained then but ahalf-dozen men.
Welton and Bob took their places and lit their cigars. The train swayedgently along, its rattle muffled by the storm. Polished black squaresrepresented the windows across which drifted hazy lights and ghostlikesuggestions of snowflakes. Bob watched this ebony nothingness in greatidleness of spirit. Presently one of the half-dozen men arose from hisplace, walked the length of the car, and dropped into the next chair.
"You're Bob Orde, aren't you?" he remarked without preliminary.
Bob looked up. He saw before him a very heavy-set young man, of mediumheight, possessed of a full moon of a face, and alert brown eyes.
"I thought so," went on this young man in answer to Bob's assent. "I'mBaker of '93. You wouldn't know me; I was before your time. But I knowyou. Seen you play. Headed for the Sunshine and Flowers?"
"Yes," said Bob.
"Ever been there before?"
"No."
"Great country! If you listen to all the come-on stuff you may bedisappointed--at first."
"How's that?" asked Bob, highly amused. "Isn't the place what it'scracked up to be?"
"It's more," asserted Baker, "but not the same stuff. The climate'sbully--best little old climate they've made, up to date--but it's got torain once in a while; and the wind's got to blow; and all that. If youbelieve the Weather in the Old Home column, you'll be sore. In two yearsyou'll be sore, anyway, whenever it does anything but stand 55 at night,72 at noon and shine like the spotlight on the illustrated songster. Ifa Californian sees a little white cloud about as big as a toy balloondown in the southeast corner he gets morose as a badger. If it starts todrizzle what you'd call a light fog he holes up. When it rains hehibernates like a bear, and the streets look like one of these populousand thriving Aztec metropoli you see down Sonora way. I guess every manis privileged to get just about so sore on the weather wherever heis--and does so."
"You been out there long?" asked Bob.
"Ever since I graduated," returned Baker promptly, "and I wouldn't liveanywhere else. They're doing real things. Don't you run away with anynotions of _dolce far nientes_ or tropical languor. This California gangis strictly on the job. The bunch seated under the spreading banana treearen't waiting for the ripe fruit to drop in their mouths. That's in theFirst Reader and maybe somewhere down among the Black and Tans--"
"Black and Tans?" interrupted Bob with a note of query.
"Yep. Oilers--greasers--Mexicans--hidalgos of all kinds from here to theequator," explained Baker. "No, sir, that gang under the banana tree areeither waiting there to sandbag the next tourist and sell him some realestate before he comes to, or else they're figuring on uprooting saidpiffling shrub and putting up an office building. Which part of thecountry are you going to?"
"Near White Oaks," said Bob.
"No abalone shells for yours, eh?" remarked Baker cryptically. Heglanced at Welton. "Where's your timber located?" he asked.
"Near Granite," replied Bob;--"why, how the devil did you know we wereout for timber?"
"'How did the Master Mind solve that problem?'" asked Baker. "Ah, that'smy secret!"
"No, that doesn't go," said Bob. "I insist on knowing; and what was thatabalone shell remark?"
"Abalone shells--tourists," capitulated Baker; "also Mexican drawn work,bead belts, burned leather, fake turquoise and ostrich eggs. Sabe?"
"Sure. But why not a tourist?"
"Tourist--in White Oaks!" cried Baker. "Son, White Oaks raises raisinsand peaches and apricots and figs and such things in quantities tostagger you. It is a nice, well-built city, and well conducted, and fullof real estate boards and chambers of commerce. But it is not framed upfor tourists, and it knows it. Not at 100 degrees Fahrenheit 'most allsummer, and a chill and solemn land fog 'most all winter."
"Well, why timber?" demanded Bob.
"My dear Watson," said Baker, indicating Mr. Welton, who grinned. "Doesyour side partner resemble a raisin raiser? Has he the ear marks of agentle agriculturist? Would you describe him as a typical sheepman, oras a daring and resolute bee-keeper?"
Bob shook his head, still unconvinced.
"Well, if you will uncover my dark methods," sighed Baker. He leanedover and deftly abstracted from the breast pocket of Bob's coat a long,narrow document. "You see the top of this stuck out in plain sight. Tothe intelligent eye instructed beyond the second grade of our excellentschool system the inscription cannot be mistaken." He held it around forBob to see. In plain typing the document was endorsed as follows:
"Granite County Timber Lands."
"My methods are very subtle," said Baker, laughing. "I find it difficultto explain them. Come around sometime and I'll pick it out for you onthe piano."
"Where are you going?" asked Bob in his turn.
"Los Angeles, on business."
"On business?--or just buying abalone shells?"
"It takes a millionaire or an Iowa farmer to be a tourist," repliedBaker.
"What are you doing?"
"Supporting an extravagant wife, I tell Mrs. Baker. You want to get downthat way. The town's a marvel. It's grown from thirty thousand to twohundred thousand in twenty years; it has enough real estate subdivisionsto accommodate eight million; it has invented the come-on house built bythe real estate agents to show how building is looking up atLonesomehurst; it has two thousand kinds of architecture--all different;it has more good stuff and more fake stuff than any place on earth--it'sa wonder. Come on down and I'll show you the high buildings."
He chatted for a few moments, then rose abruptly and disappeared downthe aisle toward the sleeping cars without the formality of a farewell.
Welton had been listening amusedly, and puffing away at his cigar insilence.
"Well," said he when Baker had gone. "How do you like your friend?"
"He's certainly amusing," laughed Bob, "and mighty good company. Thatsort of a fellow is lots of fun. I've seen them many times coming backat initiation or Commencement. They are great heroes to the kids."
"But not to any one else?" inquired Welton.
"Well--that's about it," Bob hesitated. "They're awfully good fellows,and see the joke, and jolly things up; but they somehow don't amount tomuch."
"Wouldn't think much of the scheme of trying Baker as woods foreman upin our timber, then?" suggested Welton.
"Him? Lord, no!" said Bob, surprised.
Welton threw back his head and laughed heartily, in great salvos.
"Ho! ho! ho!" he shouted. "Oh, Bobby, I wish any old Native Son could behere to enjoy this joke with me. Ho! ho! ho! ho!"
The coloured porter stuck his head in to see what this tremendousrolling noise might be, grinned sympathetically, and withdrew.
"What's the matter with you!" cried Bob, exasperated. "Shut up, and besensible."
Welton wiped his eyes.
"That, son, is Carleton P. Baker. Just say Carleton P. Baker to aCalifornian."
"Well, I can't, for four days, anyway. Who is he?"
"Didn't find out from him, for all his talk, did you?" said Weltonshrewdly. "Well, Baker, as he told you, graduated from college in '93.He came to California with about two thousand dollars of capital and noexperience. He had the sense to go in for water rights, and here he is!"
"Marvellous!" cried Bob sarcastically. "But what is he now that he ishere?"
"Head of three of the biggest power projects in California
," said Weltonimpressively, "and controller of more potential water power than anyother man or corporation in the state."
Welton enjoyed his joke hugely. After Bob had turned in, the big manparted the curtains to his berth.
"Oh, Bob," he called guardedly.
"What!" grunted the young man, half-asleep.
"Who do you think we'd better get for woods foreman just _in case_Baker shouldn't take the job?"
The Rules of the Game Page 21