CHAPTER XVIII.—VANCE RETURNS TO WATERVILLE.
T was on an October morning that Vance started for Waterville. A light frost the night before had made the air sharp and crisp. The frost disappeared, however, before the genial warmth of the rising sun, while the russet leaves grew brownerer and as the wind stirred them, sang brokenly of old age.
October is the scenic month in the mountains. You seem to stand in Nature’s picture gallery. The box-alder leaves are as changeable in color as a blushing maiden. From the low foothills on up the sides of the mountains to the timber line, the elms, the box-alders, and poplars grow in profusion. The leaves vary in color from the deepest green to the brightest scarlet, the most golden yellow, or the somberest brown. The colors are intermingled in this gorgeous panoramic scene with a charm and beauty that baffles the most skilled artist’s touch to reproduce on canvas.
Vance was seated beside Steve Gibbons on the top of the stage coach, as they whirled along in meditative silence. The evening before Louise had sung for him. It was music fit for the gods—so rich, so deep, so plaintively low, so fascinating. He could see her even now, standing on the wide old porch as she bade him good-bye. The mild October breeze that stirred the ringlets of her golden hair seemed laden with worshipers of hope for Vance, the lover, and he interpreted her every word and smile as a token reciprocal of his own deep love.
Presently Vance was brought back from his day dreams to the present by Steve Gibbons remarking:
“Things ain’t so powerful brisk down at Waterville jes’ now.”
“Why, how is that?’ asked Vance.
“Oh, I dunno,” replied Gibbons, as he waked up his leaders with a spirited crack of his whip, “can’t say jes’ what is the matter. But I can tell ye one thing, pardner,” he went on, “I’m mighty glad I’m not in the real estate business. In my opinion, them real estate agents down thar will be jumpin’ sideways for a sandwich before the winter’s over.”
Vance was noticeably depressed by Gibbons’ remarks. He was going to Waterville for the express purpose of disposing of his New York friends’ property, in which they had invested on his recommendation. He cared very little about his own investment. He was willing to wait, or even to lose it all, if he could only prevent them from sustaining loss on their purchase.
It was late that night when they reached Waterville. Vance was delighted to find that Homer Winthrop was registered at the hotel. They met the following morning at the breakfast table. The conduct of the usually polite and entertaining Winthrop was changed to a sternness for which Vance was at a loss to account. As they arose from the table, Vance went out with Winthrop and asked him how he was progressing in the lot selling business.
“How am I progressing?” repeated Winthrop, as he turned and looked coldly at Vance. “I am through. I have left Butte City for good.”
“Why, how is that?” asked Vance in some surprise. Winthrop was silent for a moment, and then replied: “It is rather strange, Mr. Gilder, for you to ask such a question after writing the article you did for that New York paper. The Inter Mountain Blade and the Butte City Miner both copied the letter. It is hardly necessary for me to observe,” he went on, “that it rendered it impossible for me to sell another lot in Butte City. Those who had purchased became so infuriated that I deemed it best for personal safety to leave the town.”
Saying this, Winthrop turned abruptly and left Vance, who was for a moment unable to make a reply. Homer Winthrop’s words both astonished and chilled him.
A little later he visited the Town Company’s office, where he found Marcus Donald, the resident director, and Homer Winthrop in deep consultation. Donald was a man of commanding presence. His associates often remarked that Marcus Donald’s face was worth $10,000 in an important trade of any kind. He was dignified and commanding in appearance, and when one talked with him, the most skeptical fell into the habit of believing every word that fell from his lips. Vance discovered that he was not wanted, but he determined to vindicate himself, and said:
“Gentlemen, pardon me for interrupting, but I must ask your indulgence for a few moments. I wish you would read this article. I am humiliated enough without any further complications or misunderstandings.”
He handed Marcus Donald a copy of the Banner. Donald adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles and read aloud the entire article, “Two Western Towns.” When he had concluded, Vance turned toward Winthrop.
“Is that the letter you referred to?”
“Why, yes,” said Winthrop, “but how is this?” said he, picking up the paper. “The Butte City papers published only that part of the article referring to Waterville; but how came you to write such a letter at all, Mr. Gilder? You certainly know there is not a syllable of truth in it from beginning to finish.”
Vance looked first at Winthrop and then at Donald, and replied, “I did not write it.” He then proceeded to give them a history of his dismissal.
“This was written,” tapping the paper with the back of his hand, “evidently to counteract the influence and effect of what I had written the week before.”
“Of course that puts it in a different light,” said Donald, rising and extending his hand to Vance. “I could not believe it possible that you, Mr. Gilder, could be guilty of writing such a libelous article as this is.”
Winthrop also accepted the explanation as eminently satisfactory, and sympathized with Vance in the loss of his position on the great New York daily.
“It has completely killed the lot selling business for me in Butte City,” said he, “but fortunately for us, we have made some very excellent sales during the past few weeks, and the Town Company’ has sufficient money in the treasury to pay all its debts, and the last obligation will be paid off before twelve o’clock to-day.”
“Yes,” said Marcus Donald, “they will all be paid off, but it will leave the treasury in a depleted condition; but the future, I believe, is all right. I hope you will not lose faith, Mr. Gilder, in Waterville’s prospects.”
“No,” said Vance, “I have unbounded faith in Waterville, but I would like very much to have the Town Company, if possible, return the $2,500 which I invested for my New York friends. It would save me much embarrassment if I could return them their money’. They doubtless know I have been dismissed from the force, and have read this last article, which puts an entirely’ different coloring on this western country’ from what I represented.”
"You must know,” said Winthrop, “that what you seek is next to impossible. The money has been paid into the treasury, and no difference how friendly I personally feel toward you, or how much the resident director, Mr. Donald, may wish to return the money, it cannot possibly be done without an action of the directors.”
At this juncture, Marcus Donald invited Vance to take a scat by his desk, and he would explain to him carefully and fully the situation, and believed he could prove to him conclusively why he was acting for his New York friends’ best interests in leaving the investment as it was.
Donald produced a great many maps and carefully spread them out on the table, adjusted his spectacles carefully, and with his $10,000 face looked squarely into Vance’s, and proceeded to go over the old, old story of the unlimited natural resources of the valley. He discussed at length, and in a very entertaining and convincing manner, the number of acres of land already in cultivation, the probable annual increase acreage of farm land; figured out results that amounted to millions of dollars. He then carried Vance from one side of the map to the other, up to the top, then down to the bottom and back again to the point where they had first started; indeed, he quite enthused Vance in regard to the future prospects and final outcome of Waterville.
He also confirmed Winthrop’s statement in regard to their inability to take any money out of the treasury for the purpose suggested without first having an action of the directors.
“I advise you to write to your New York friends,” continued Donald, “and tell them their investment is all right, if—mark, I say if—they have the nerve to stay with it a year or such a matter. Of course this article in the Banner hurts us immensely. It is simply a highhanded piece of boycotting; but the west has received similar injustice at the hands of the great New York dailies times without number in years gone by.”
Acting on Marcus Donald’s advice, Vance wrote a letter that day to his New York friends, and afterwards felt better for having done so. He determined to remain a week or two at Waterville, and see if there was any demand for real estate. Before many days, he began to understand the wonderful, far-reaching effects of the late article in the Banner. Rival surrounding towns copied it, and with double-leaded editorials called attention to a town that had over-reached itself. They denounced the various members of the Waterville Town Company as villainous sharks, and predicted that the boom had been pricked with a needle that would let all the wind out of it.
The transient class of real estate agents and hangers-on, who had been doing a rather thriving business, said, “Boys, this ends it,” as they blew the foam from their glasses of beer, “we might as well go somewhere else as wait and see the dog-fennel grow in the streets of Waterville.”
One day Vance called on J. Arthur Boast at his office. He found him as elegantly dressed as ever, and engaged in tying up bundles of legal papers, deeds, contracts, etc. "Are you getting ready to move away from Waterville?” asked Vance.
“No, I am not going away; that is, not permanently,” replied Boast, as he stooped to brush a speck of dust from his highly polished shoes, “but I do not presume we will have any use for deeds or contracts for some time to come, and I am therefore putting them away out of the dust until the boom opens up again.”
“You talk a little discouragingly,” said Vance.
“Discouragingly!” said Boast, as he seated himself on the table in front of Vance. “Discouragingly! Why, didn’t I tell you the Town Company would ruin Waterville? I was away only two weeks visiting, as you know, at Gold Bluff, but while I was gone they inflated prices of property; made promises right and left that were quite impossible for them to fulfill. The newspapers all over the country are denouncing them, and the result of it is that Waterville is dead! I say dead, and I mean dead, and all on account of the Town Company.”
“Do you suppose,” asked Vance, “that you could possibly’ sell my twenty-five lots?”
Boast looked absently’ out of the window and said, “I might sell them in time by putting them on my special bargain list.”
“At what price?” Vance ventured to ask.
“Let me see,” said Boast, “you paid $2,500 for them, did you not?”
“Yes,” replied Vance.
“Oh, well,” said Boast, “I might be able to get $500 for them, but it would be a pretty green sort of a tenderfoot that I could load them on at even that price. But what’s the use,” said he, facing around toward Vance and still sitting on the table, “what’s the use of losing your nerve? Within one or two years Waterville will be all right. She can’t be kept down. She has natural resources; the richest farm lands in the world; the greatest water power of any inland city in the United States; marvelous veins of coal; inexhaustible quarries of rock; unsurpassed forests of timber; and abundance of water for irrigating purposes.
Why, dang it, old fellow,” said he, slapping Vance on the shoulder, “Waterville s all right. All you’ve got to do is to hold on to your nerve and your lots, and you will come out on top.”
“That’s all very well,” replied Vance, “but the ray of hope you hold out is too far away to be very satisfactory at the present time.”
“Every tenderfoot,” replied Boast, “needs a certain amount of experience in order to acclimate him to this western country. Your experience is just now beginning. After a little Colonel Bonifield will strike it rich on Gray Rocks, Waterville will also come out of the kinks, and there you are, a rich man. By the way, the Colonel must be pretty well along toward the 400 foot level, Waterville will also come out of the kinks, and there you are, a rich man. By the way, the Colonel must be pretty well along toward the 400 foot level, is he not:”
“I believe he is making very satisfactory progress,” replied Vance.
“If the old man should strike it rich,” said Boast, “I would not mind connecting myself with his family. Of course, I am not so hard to please as you New York fellows.” He looked archly at Vance and smiled wickedly as he made this remark.
Vance was indignant at the cold-blooded insinuation of Boast, and replied: "While you may have no objections, I don’t doubt you will meet some pretty knotty ones before you succeed in winning Miss Bonifield.”
“Possibly,” replied Boast, coolly. “Nevertheless, if the old Colonel strikes it in Gray Rocks, it’s worth a trial, anyway; but come, there’s no use in quarreling over something that hasn’t happened, or being down-hearted about a busted boom, so long as a fellow has a bottle of red liquor.”
Vance did not wait for him to go through the ordeal of condemning himself as a drunken profligate, but let him to finish tying up his papers and drink the contents of his bottle alone.