Part 11 (2/2)
”Aw, you can't get a job here that'll make you any money. Tweet told me something about where you're going down there in southern California. It's on the desert. A new railroad's building. Things will be lively. A friend of mine was in here at the time. He's got a lot of automobile trucks, and makes piles of money. Maybe you noticed him. Good-looking fellow in a brown suit. Drives a big drab car?”
”Ye-yes, I've seen him,” admitted Hiram resentfully.
”Well, he was in here and talked with Tweet, and he said he thought he'd look into the freighting proposition down there. With his trucks, you know. There's a long haul over the desert and the mountains, it seems, and he says it ought to be good. Said maybe he'd take me down some time, if anything turned up.”
”You wouldn't go!”
”Wouldn't I? Huh! You bet your life I would! I only hope he'll stick to what he says. Maybe I'd get to see you down there. Tweet said he'd heard that the place they freight to is a live one. Ragtown, he said they called it. That's the kind of a place to make money in. I'd go, if I were you. Go down and make a stake, and then come back to Frisco.
Money talks here.”
”With you?” Said Hiram, slowly drinking in dread suspicion.
”You betcha my life!” Lucy said lightly.
She broke off suddenly and turned toward the door with a smile of welcome on her lips. In came Hiram Hooker's hated rival, Al Drummond.
”h.e.l.lo, Lucy!” he called breezily. Then he leaned over the counter, glanced hurriedly about the empty restaurant, and kissed the girl on the lips.
She slapped at him playfully. ”You got a nerve, Al!” she exclaimed.
Hiram Hooker heard no more, for blindly he was stumbling out, crushed, heartbroken. Hiram Hooker suddenly had decided to go to southern California with Mr. Orr Tweet, and the sooner they could get away the better he would like it. He realized now that Lucy Dalles was not the adventure girl who had beckoned in his dreams. She was a cheap, scheming adventuress, and he hated the very thought of her now--and was plunged into the depths of despair and humiliation.
In the lounging room he found Tweet.
”Come on,” he said huskily, ”le's go to the employment office. I'm ready.”
Orr Tweet arose, casting a curious look at Hiram's haggard face, but said nothing as he followed him out.
Fifteen minutes later they entered a large employment bureau on Clay Street, where were gathered perhaps a hundred workingmen reading the bulletins or lounging on benches.
Every now and then a brisk, leonine-headed man walked about among them, making announcements as a train caller does in a big union depot.
”s.h.i.+ppin' to Oregon--two o'clock to-morrow afternoon--I want two hundred muckers--forty cents an hour--board one dollar a day. I want twenty skinners, same job, forty a month and found. Sign up, boys!
Hit the trail and make yer stake. Two dollars is the bill!
”I want one hundred men to work in onions and potatoes.
Three-twenty-five a day and board. Think of it, boys!
Three-twenty-five a day and _board_! Like gettin' money from home!
Get your blankets and line up for the chance of a lifetime.
”Then listen, boys! I want six rough carpenters--the rougher the better--mine work. Eight dollars a day, eight hours--_dollar an hour_!
Fee two dollars. Think of that, huskies! Can ye swing a hammer or push a saw? You're on if you can--sign up! s.h.i.+p ye out this evenin'.
A snap! A cinch!
”I want a sub-grade foreman at seven dollars--eight hours!
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