My "Pardner" and I. Emerson Willis George
but they are merely blacksmith-shops-on-the-crossroads,’ compared with Butte City. D’ye see that Corner lot over thar’. Five years ago I owned the ground whar’ that buildin’ stands. I bought it for $300, held it just thirteen months, and sold it for $4,000 spot cash.”
“Why that was an immense profit,” said Vance, with more interest than he had yet manifested in Hank Casey’s description of Butte City. Hank Casey smiled contentedly and expectorated an accumulation of tobacco juice with a resounding “pit-tew” on the side walk, and said: “You call that a good profit? Why, pardner, I bought stock in the Blackbird mine at twelve cents a share when the company was fust organized, and now its worth $300 a share and payin’ an immense dividend monthly. That’s what I call a good investment; but as fer that speck,” said he, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the corner lot, “that don’t amount to nothin’.”
“Do you know where Gold Bluff, Idaho, is?” asked Vance.
“I reckon I ought to know,” replied the boomer; “me an’ Steve Gibbons were the fust prospectors in that ‘neck o’ the woods.’ Steve an’ I claim to own the Peacock, but old Rufus Grim, the biggest scoundrel in Idaho yes, the biggest in this whole minin’ country claims to own it, and has got possession, and I’ve learned, in this western country ‘specially, that possession is not only nine points of the law, but mighty near ten. Of course, a gold mine like the Peacock is a mighty handy thing to have in the family, but as a general rule, they’re mighty unsartin. Give me a silver or copper mine every time.”
Vance assured his new-found acquaintance that he was under many obligations for the information received, and said he hoped to meet him again. Hank Casey, however, was not to be disposed of in this way, and walked along with Vance. Presently he called his attention to some vacant lots across the street.
“D’ye see them lots over thar? I can sell you one o’ them fifty-foot lots at $3,500. an I’ll bet diamonds against peanuts it’ll be a rich buy at $10,000 before two years. By the way, stranger, what’s the matter with you takin a leetle ‘flyer’ in Butte City dirt? Buy a few lots, stop here with us for six months, sell ‘em out agin for 100 per cent, profit, an’ that’ll pay all the expenses of your western trip. See? said he, touching Vance gently in the ribs with his elbow.
“Yes; I see,” said Vance, “I see very clearly, or would, were it not for the smoke. It smells like sulphur. Does it come from some of your mills or smelters?”
“Now, look’ee here, pard, you’re just like every other down-easter. They’re always kickin’ ‘bout this smoke.
Now, let me tell you; if we didn’t have that ‘ar smoke we wouldn’t have any Butte City, and besides, it kills the bacteria, molecules, an’ all that sort o thing. It’s mighty healthy here, I can tell you, an’ a mighty pert town into the bargain.”
Vance coughed immoderately, but Hank Casey who was acclimated, assured him that he was at that moment breathing the healthiest air that ever his lungs were filled with.
In the course of their walk, the boomer kept up a constant conversation, explaining different points of interest, pointing out the different mining properties in sight and telling their names, until Vance felt that he had been very fortunate in falling in with one so conversant with Butte City. At parting, Vance bade his new-found friend good day, and promised to call at his office before leaving the city.
When he returned to the hotel, he commenced his first letter to the Banner, but it was not finished until late that night. When it appeared in the great New York journal it surprised, in point of brilliancy and interest, even his warmest friends. His descriptions were so vivid and lifelike, and his characters so droll, and withal teeming with information, that a score of letters came to the managing editor, assuring him of the great pleasure and profit they had experienced in its perusal. Of course, Vance knew nothing of this at the time, but devoted himself with unceasing diligence in searching out reliable information, and then training it into weekly letters.
Butte City began to impress him as a place of more importance than he had at first thought. He learned that almost one million of dollars was paid out monthly to the miners alone, and they, as a class, are “hail fellows well met,” who believe in the doctrine of keeping money in constant circulation.
He noticed in many of the mercantile houses that when the day clerks went off duty at six o’clock in the evening, another set of clerks came on, and the shops and stores, by the aid of brilliant electric lights, continued business twenty-four hours out of the day the year around.
Vance frequently thought of his conversation with the managing editor, and what he had said about western towns and the over-enthusiastic town boomer. In Hank Casey he felt he had found a typical character that fully came up to all the managing editor had inferred, and had frequently used him as an inspiration, but was becoming more and more convinced that Butte City was one of those solid, substantial places which the managing editor had classed as exceptions to the rule.
CHAPTER VI – THE TOWN BOOMER
ABOUT TWO WEEKS after Vance Gilder arrived in Butte City, he noticed one morning that everybody was talking about a new town, and each was asking the others what they thought about it. Glancing at the hotel register, he saw the name, Homer Winthrop, of Waterville, Idaho.
In looking over the Butte City Miner and the Inter-Mountain Blade, both healthy dailies and well edited, he was somewhat astonished to find a full-page advertisement in each of the papers, setting forth in blazing splendor the great Thief River Valley, and signed by Homer Winthrop as agent, announcing that he would be at the Mercury Hotel for a short time, and inviting those who were interested in investing a little money in a purely agricultural city, to come early and “get in on the ground floor.”
The advertisement represented Waterville as being in the midst of the great Thief River Valley, with the largest water power in the country, surrounded by an agricultural district of two million acres of the richest land the sun ever shone down upon. He termed the new town of Waterville the “City of Destiny,” and said the price of town lots would quadruple in a few years’ time.
Vance was at once interested. “Here,” said he to himself, “is a genuine town boomer, and as the fellow is stopping at this hotel, it will be an easy matter to learn just how this boom business is operated. It will make an excellent article for the Banner.”
Accordingly, about eleven o’clock that forenoon he called to see the irrepressible town boomer and hear what sort of a marvelous story he had to tell about Waterville.
He was quickly admitted into a reception room by a young gentleman who assured him that Mr. Winthrop would soon be at leisure, and begged him to be seated, calling his attention to the numerous maps on the walls, one of which covered nearly the entire side of the room.
Winthrop’s young assistant seemed to know his business, and at once commenced the preliminary skirmish of interesting Vance in the great Thief River Valley, and especially town lots in Waterville; but as Vance did not evince any inclination to purchase, the young fellow endeavored to so impress him by calling his attention to the advertisements in the morning papers. Every once in a while he would tip-toe over to the door where the great town-boomer, Homer Winthrop, was holding a private conversation with a would-be purchaser. He would put his ear to the keyhole and listen for a moment, and then come tip-toeing back and assure Vance Mr. Winthrop would soon be at leisure.
Presently the door opened and a gentleman in miner’s garb came out, and Vance was immediately shown in. As he entered the private room of Homer Winthrop, he involuntarily paused to study, if but for a moment, the face of the man who had arrived in Butte City late the night before, and now had everyone in the place agog over the prospects of a new town that had just been laid out on paper in the Thief River Valley.
Homer Winthrop, with all the easy grace of a Chesterfield, motioned his visitor to a seat, pushing a box of very superior Havanas toward him, and invited him to join him in burning a weed. He was a man above the average height, inclined to be rather slender, and possessed a rather good looking face, beaming with good nature and apparent frankness; a pair of intelligent dark eyes that laughed and smiled with as much expression