Everybody laughed and joked. Some of the men
removed their coats in order to be more comfortable. The young salesmen
had laboured successfully to bring these strangers to a feeling of
partnership in at least the aims of the Company, of partisanship against
the claims of other less-favoured valleys than Lucky. During a pause in
the fun, one of the "prospects," an elderly, white-whiskered farmer of
the more prosperous type, nodded toward the brook.
"That sounds good," said he.
"It's the supply for the Lucky Lands," replied Selwyn. "It ought to
sound good."
"There's mighty few flowing creeks in California this far out from the
mountains," interposed another salesman. "You know out here, except in
the rainy season, the rivers all flow bottom-up."
They all guffawed at this ancient and mild joke. The old farmer wagged
his head.
"Water is King," said he solemnly, as though voicing an original and
profound thought.
A look of satisfaction overspread the countenance of the particular
salesman who had the old farmer in charge. When you can get your
"prospect" to adopt your catchword and enunciate it with conviction, he
is yours!
After the meal Bob, unnoticed, wandered off up the canon.
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