Then Peter returned, and further social amenities were postponed to some future meeting.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“YOU TELL HOOVER I SAID SO!”
Las Vegas awoke one morning to find itself in the public eye. Destiny had so decreed when it permitted Las Vegas to become the town nearest to the proposed dam site at Boulder Canyon,—the largest governmental project undertaken for many a day. The Panama Canal, said the orators (and no doubt they spoke the truth), had not cost so much as it would cost to dam the Colorado River, to conserve its tremendous power, to control its flood waters and put the river to work tamely watering long rows of cotton, potatoes, great fields of grain. Long enough had it gone leaping down through the wildest, most gorgeous scenery in the country. Now it must be harnessed to new industries and become the servant of plowboys, the friend of prospectors. It must pull trains across the desert which it was to transform into tilled farms. It must keep several States vibrant with the hum of machinery. It must make of the town of Las Vegas a city worthy the name. One can’t blame Las Vegas for being particularly interested in that phase of the project.
The town lay fairly under the eye of the Eagle,—and of the sun, whose light the magic alchemy of the desert transmuted into soft tints on the mountains, into a faint lavender glow on the desert. The air was still, with a little nip to it that would later soften to a lazy warmth. A stranger to the desert, standing on the depot platform, would have thought that he might walk quite easily to Charleston Mountains, standing bold and stark against the western sky line.
Down the flag-draped main street, coming from the side door of the little post-office, a huge, good-natured negro leaned against a pushcart piled high with dingy, striped canvas mail sacks. When he passed, certain belated citizens swung out to the edge of the pavement and took longer steps, knowing that the train was on time, and that the crowd would already be edging out upon the platform. Automobiles with flags standing perkily from headlight braces went careening past, to swing up into the parking space, trying their nonchalant best to look as if they were not going to hold governors and high officials of the Federal Government and carry them safely down to Boulder Canyon, the most popular dam site on the Colorado.
A group of small boys dressed in white came marching down the street, stubbing toes over the uneven places because they must keep their eyes on the music while they played the uncertain strains of a march. They were very sleek as to hair, very shiny as to cheeks and very solemn, those boys. Their mothers and their fathers and their teachers were going to detect any false note or flatted sharp and tell them about it afterwards. Besides, there aren’t many boys who ever get a chance to stand on the platform and play when the Governor’s train comes in—and be the only band on the job. They felt the deep responsibility attendant upon the honor and thought feverishly of certain spots in the music where they weren’t quite sure they could make it; not with the whole town standing around listening.
They fumbled their instruments, stood hipshot and consciously unconcerned while they waited for the train. Their leader glanced around the group, encountered certain anxious pairs of eyes fixed upon his face, and made an impulsive change in the programme. “The Star-Spangled Banner” was appropriate and customary for such occasions, but there were treacherous high notes which a certain scared boy might play flat, and other places where the slide trombone was in danger of skidding. He gave them a piece they could play with their eyes shut and was rewarded by hearing long sighs of relief here and there among the musicians.
So it happened that when the train had slid into the station and the Governors and high officials had descended from the private car, Rawley caught the familiar air, “I’m forever blow-ing bubbles” floating out over the heads of the assembled citizens of Las Vegas. If the tune wabbled here and there, what matter? Governors and high officials can hear better music anywhere,—but they never will hear a more sincere effort to please, made by more loyal hearts than skipped beats under the white jackets of the “kid band” of Las Vegas.
I’m dreaming dreams, I’m scheming schemes,
I’m building castles high—