Читать книгу My "Pardner" and I - Emerson Willis George - Страница 9

A NEW WESTERN TOWN is usually provided with a public square, and the business houses and shops are arranged along the four sides of it in sentinel-like position, the corner lots going at a premium, and where the most substantial buildings are erected. Waterville, however could not boast of a public square, but it had two iron bridges spanning the Thief River.

A large stone grist mill had been built on the side of the river opposite the town, and on the elevated ground beyond, it was said the State Agricultural College was to be built.

It was a favorite pastime with the real estate agents to sit on the depot platform, and while waiting for the incoming trains, to whittle pine sticks into shavings, telling of the different manufactories, state institutions, colleges and asylums, etc., that would be located in the near future at Waterville.

That evening after Vance had made his purchase of town lots he strolled away by himself across the great iron bridge, and gave himself up to meditation. Had he acted wisely? Would Waterville after all prove a “boom town” and his investment a losing one? Was Homer Winthrop, with his suave manners and great earnestness, which at times seemed to carry conviction to the hearts of all who heard him express himself, the noble specimen of manhood he appeared to be, or were his fascinations merely the arts of the ordinary skilled western boomer? Would the managing editor approve his action in purchasing lots in such a new and undeveloped place as Waterville?

It is a common experience with mankind, that after a doubtful transaction has been consummated, we can deliberate with far more intentness of thought than before the trade was made.

A peculiarity of a western town is its plentifulness of real estate agents, who seem to travel in swarms, and find an abiding place in the town that promises the greatest activity.

After a reaction sets in and hard times overtake them, this peculiar class usually pick up their “ink-horns” and fly, as from a pestilence.

Another peculiarity is, that if a trade is made with a “tender-foot” everyone in the village usually knows of it in a very few hours.

As Vance was returning from his walk he was met on the outskirts of the village by a number of this class of hangers-on, who make their living by selling town lots on commission. Each one was desirous of saying “just a word” to Vance in private.

The story of one was practically the story of all. They advised him to stop and think what he was losing by not buying more property in Waterville. One particularly long, lank individual, who wore a sombrero and high-topped boots, assured him that “the opportunity of a lifetime was at that very minute knocking at his door; it might never come again.”

“You might go away from Waterville,” said he, “and come back here in a few mouths’ time, and you’ll find the town lots I can sell you to-day for a mere song, going at ten times the price that you can buy them for now. My name is Steve Gibbons, and I presume I am doing the biggest real estate business in Waterville. I sell more lots than any other half dozen agents in town. You’ve made a great mistake, Mr. Gilder,” said he, “in buying of the Town Company. Of course, this is confidential, but if you had come to me instead of buying of Winthrop, I could have saved you big money.”

“What do you mean by ‘the company’.” asked Vance.

“Why, you see, the Waterville Town Company own mighty near all the property in town.

That man Winthrop is a member of the company. Now, while I have not as many lots for sale as the Town Company, my prices beat them all holler.”

“Do you think,” asked Vance, “that Mr. Winthrop charged me too much for my lots?”

“Think!” said Steve Gibbons, “think? why, pardner, all the agents in town are laughin’ about it; he took you in.”

Vance bit his lips, and mentally concluded to investigate very thoroughly before he quit Waterville.

“You see,” Gibbons went on, “all us fellers are down on the Town Company. We don’t like corporations, nohow; they don’t give us honorable-intentioned fellers a fair chance. We are the men that’s buildin’ up this here town – givin’ it the bone, and the sinew, and the standin’, so to speak. Don’t you see?”

“Yes,” said Vance, “I understand,” and begging to be excused, he turned and walked away from the “honorable-intentioned” Steve Gibbons, and soon after sought the privacy of his own room in the Ballard House.

Dick Ballard was a Grand Army man, and kept the only hotel of any importance in Waterville. The only thing first-class about it was the price for lodging. Immediately after the average traveler settled his bill at the Ballard, there was generally a half-distinct impression in his mind that he had been stopping at a first-class hotel, but the remembrance of three kinds of meat cooked in the same kettle was not easily forgotten.

As Vance sat in his room, in anything but a pleasant frame of mind, there came a gentle knock on his door. He quickly admitted his visitor, and found it was Dick Ballard, the proprietor.

“I reckon,” said he, as soon as he stepped in, “you’ll be one of us by and by. Bought property already, and a mighty good buy you’ve made of it, too. Oh, you know a good thing when you see it; you bet yer life you do.”

“Do you think,” said Vance, “the lots I purchased were reasonable at the price?”

“I should say so; yes, sir, mighty cheap. This here town is comin out of the kinks in fine shape. We’ll have a drum corps in our State militia before another year; you bet we will. I presume you know we have the finest drilled company at Waterville, outside the regular army, in the state?”

“I have been told,” said Vance, “that I paid too much for the property. I am more interested in learning the truth or untruth of the statement than I am about your militia company.”

“Who told you that:” asked Ballard, with indignation. As Vance did not answer, the hotel proprietor went on to say: “I’ll bet it was J. Arthur Boast. Now, look’ee here, Mr. Gilder, you can’t believe everything these fellers tell you.”

The truth of this remark pressed itself on Vance so forcibly, and his indignation getting the better of him, he turned upon Dick Ballard and said bitterly:

“Who in thunderation can I believe?”

“You can believe me, sir, and I’ll produce prima facie evidence of everything I say. This town is all right; your investment is a good one, and the man who says it is not is surely trying to stick his nose into other people’s business – but, say, hold on a minute,” said Ballard, as if he had forgotten something, “will you take a drink?” and he produced a bottle from his pocket.

“No, thank you,” said Vance.

“Well, if you don’t mind, I will,” said the landlord, as he proceeded to treat himself to a liberal portion of the contents of his bottle.

“Now,” said he, as he sat down smacking his lips, “everything I tell you is prima facie. I know how it is; some of these fellows have been trying to make you dissatisfied with your purchase. I am not selling town lots. My business is to run this hotel and see that everybody has a fair deal.”

“Who is the Town Company?” asked Vance.

“The Town Company, sir, consists of some of the most remarkable men in this country. They are strong men, brainy men; they are hustlers; and I,” said Ballard, rising to his feet, “I am their friend. This man, Homer Winthrop,” he went on, “carries more gray matter about on his brain than all the shark real estate agents in Waterville put together. He is one of the company, but you’ll see them all before long; and when you do, I know you’ll agree with me in saying they are the cleanest cut lot of men on the continent. Winthrop is a great man, but there are others in the company that are a mighty sight stronger than he is. They are all men of honor, and their integrity is prima facie.”

“Prima facie” seemed to be a favorite expression of Dick Ballard’s. After he had delivered himself in the strongest language at his command, he treated himself to another drink and retired.

Vance sat far into the night, looking out at his window into the mellow moonlight, listening to the ceaseless roar of the waters and the yelping coyotes in the distance, which were answered by half a dozen dogs in different parts of the town. At times he regretted his purchase, and again he felt it must, in the very nature of things, increase many times in value in a few years.

The moon came up the eastern sky, and seemed to hang in space like a ball of fire, beckoning him to return to his eastern home before disaster overtook him. The three great Tetons of the mountain range bearing their name stood out in bold relief, throwing long, menacing shadows directly towards him. The shimmering of the soft moonbeams glistened on the restless waters of the musical river, whose alluring song of promise and power was wafted to him on the night wind.