Claire felt a little pang of regret as she studied Mrs. Larry’s radiant face. How much this friend had done for her, yet she could not place the family car at her disposal. It was rarely used for such unselfish purposes, but must be always at the command of her mother and sisters for calls, shopping and the briefest errands. She suddenly realized that Mrs. Larry was addressing her personally.
“Think of it, Claire—a whole perfect day in the country, with everything coming out of the soft brown earth to find the sunlight. It may not mean so much to you, for all your friends have machines. But you’ll go with us—because the trip may prove profitable. And I’ll take the babies, and, yes, Lena—she has been so faithful, and—is it a seven-passenger car, Larry?”
“It is, but it won’t hold the entire block.”
“No-o—only Teresa Moore.”
“Teresa goes. This is your party!”
So it happened that the next Sunday morning Mrs. Larry, with eyes shining, carried her “thrift party” off on the most delightful excursion so far undertaken. Even the Burrows’ chauffeur relaxed at sight of her happiness and enthusiasm, and forgave the early start, for at eight-thirty they were spinning over Queensboro Bridge. Behind them lay the city, for the most part asleep, as New York generally is after its Saturday night gaieties.
“We early birds will have the famous Merrick Road practically to ourselves,” said Mr. Larry, as they swept through Astoria. On they went, now through little towns, now past stately homes, now between rolling truck farms, green with corn, gray-blue with cabbage, spattered with the scarlet of tomatoes. It seemed as if all Long Island was yielding a bountiful store of fresh things, enough to feed three cities like New York.
“And yet,” sighed Teresa Moore, “we pay absurdly high prices for vegetables, which, though raised within an hour’s motor run of our doors, reach us withered and pithy.”
“Well, we’ll know why very soon,” said Mrs. Larry. Then she turned to her husband. “Who did you say owns this farm?”
“The Long Island Railroad. The president of the road, Mr. Ralph Peters, found on investigation that his road ran through territory which was without value, as the average American sees it—without lumber, without coal or minerals, without any great water power, without any opportunities for developing industrial plants of any sort. Half of this territory, lying within fifty or sixty miles of New York City, was a howling wilderness, selling at three or possibly six dollars an acre, and no one buying it.