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He knew he could make it pay. Back in the hills, there, he's got a ranch of five hundred an' eighty acres, bought it dirt cheap, too; an' I want to tell you I could travel around in a different tourin' car every day in the week just outa the profits he makes on that ranch from the horses all the way from heavy draughts to fancy steppers. "But how? how? how did he get it all?" Saxon clamored.
Why he's got a town house in San Leandro now. An' he rides around in a four-thousan'-dollar tourin' car. An' just the same his front door yard grows onions clear to the sidewalk. He clears three hundred a year on that patch alone. I know ten acres of land he bought last year, a thousan' an acre they asked'm, an' he never batted an eye. He knew it was worth it, that's all.
Jest think of it think of a big circus, hippodrome, menagery, an' side-shows tourin' the whole United States an' Canada without a cent of profit, an' a mountain storekeeper in a measly hole like this gitting rich out of its remains without turning his hand over or losin' a minute's sleep. It looks like thar is some'n crooked in the universe."
Royal bein' as you may say one of the family, took us all to the grove in his big tourin' car, and the fourth trip he took Polly alone, and wuzn't it queer that, though the load wuz fur lighter, it took him three times as long as the other three trips together? Why, they never got there till dinner wuz on the table, and then they didn't seem to care a mite about the extra good food.
"By George!" says Mr. Robert, slappin' his knee. "The very thing. Sunday, eh?" It was easy enough stagin' the affair. All he had to do was to ask the Beans out for the week-end, and then after Sunday dinner load 'em into the tourin' car, collect me, and drive off about 20 miles or so to the south shore of Long Island. Maybe, though, you don't remember about Private Ben Riggs?
But somehow there never was no oil on none o' the land that Bob tied up, so he got plumb disgusted an' quit. He was thinkin' o' tourin' the country districts sellin' little pieces o' bluestone to put in the bowls of kerosene lamps to keep 'em from explodin', when I see him next.
I wished more'n once that Peter T. Brown, our business manager, was aboard to help me with advice, but Peter is off tourin' the Yosemite with his wife and her relations, so whatever pilotin' there was I had to do. And every day fetched Jonadab's bows nigher the matrimonial rocks.
They come to the stable in big tourin' cars an' drove out the wagons with half the police of Oakland to help them. Say, it was sure some day. The sky rained cobblestones. An' you oughta heard the clubs on our heads rat-tat-tat-tat, rat-tat-tat-tat!
"Feeney, go over to Millerstown and inquire if a black limousine with wire wheels stopped there to-night between eight and nine o'clock." A figure, unnoticed in the darkness, approached. It proved to be a lanky farmer, who spoke with a decided drawl. "I reckon I kin help ye thar. They was a big limozine tourin' car with wire wheels went through Millerstown 'bout ha'f past eight, quat' t' nine.
Once we passed a big tourin' car full of young folks and as we went by they caught sight of Barry, actin' as substitute gas tank, and they all turned to give him the haw-haw. "Probably they they think I I'm doing this on a bub-bet," says Barry. "I I wish I were. I I'd pay." "Store ahead!" announces Ann. "Perhaps we can get some more gas." It was a good guess.
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