“Lloyd,” he says, pantin’ hard, “I ain’t got no right to tell, but I can’t hole it in. Them Chicago fellers, Lloyd, are a Standard Oil bunch. Look a-here!” And he pushed out a telegram.
I wouldn’t ’a’ believed it if I hadn’t saw it writ down in black and white. But there it was, haided Chicago, addressed to Porky, and as plain as day: “Buy up all that’s possible. Price no object. Rockafeller.”
Say! I come nigh lettin’ out a yell. Then, knowin’ they was no use to ast the agent to sell, I split fer the liv’ry-stable. And when I got back into town late that night, I’d been down to a ranch below Goldstone and handed over my nest-aig fer a quarter-section just south of town.
Next mornin’, they was a nice pile of stakes throwed out on to that sand patch of mine, all them stakes white on the one end and sharp on the other. And they was a big sign onloaded, too. Yas, ma’am. It said, “The Lloyd Addition.”
And that same noon, Number 201 brung me a letter from little Macie!
I didn’t cut up my quarter into lots straight off. Made up my mind it’d be best to see that real-estate feller first, ast his advice, and see if he’d handle the property. So I made fer his office in a turrible sweat.
Heerd awful loud talkin’ as I come nigh, and seen they was a big crowd ’round the door. And here was Porky and the parson, just havin’ it–up and down!
“The idear!” the parson was sayin’, “–the idear of you’ thinkin’ you can go stick a pavilion where licker’ll be sold right next to the Cathedral!” (He was madder ’n all git out!)
Porky shrug his shoulders. “My dear sir,” he says, “I got to use my own land in my own way.”
“Aw!” answers the parson, solemn, “–aw! my friend, give you’ heart a housecleanin’. Think not so muchly about worldly possessions, but seecure a lot in the New Jerusalem!”