“Then we hurled up a grist mill since you was here, coöperative. Hob, he got up that. And we got a good wagon road through the mountain, to Upham. Goes up Redgate and out by MacCleod’s Tank. Steepish, but no sand; when we get a car of stuff to ship we can haul twice as much as we can take to Rincon. We can’t buy nothing at Upham, sure enough, and sometimes have to wait for our cars. But we can have stuff shipped to Upham from El Paso, and it’s downhill coming back. Also, Hobby allows this Upham project will ably assist Rincon to wake up and build us a road up the valley.”
“Hobby invented this wagon road, did he?”
“Every bit. We all chipped in to do the work. But Hob furnished the idea. That ain’t all, either. From now on, we’re going to have plenty to do, wintertimes. Mr. See, we got a factory up and ready to start. Yessir!”
“Easy, Big Chump! You’ll strain yourself.”
“Straight goods—no joking.”
“Must be a hell of a factory!”
“She’s all right, son. A home-grown factory. You go look at her to-morrow. Broom factory. Yessir! Every man jack of us raised a patch of broom corn. We sell it to ourselves or buy it of ourselves, whichever way you like it best; and anybody that wants to make brooms does that little thing. We ship from Upham and divvy up surplus. Every dollar’s worth of broom corn draws down one dollar’s share of the net profit, and every dollar’s worth of labor does just that—no more, no less. It works out—with good faith and fair play.”
“Hob?” said Johnny.
“That’s the man.” Adam Forbes let his hand rest for a moment on the younger man’s shoulder. “Charlie, you and me are all right in our place—but there ain’t goin’ to be no such place much longer. I reckon we ain’t keepin’ up with the times. So now you know why I wanted you should go prospectin’ with me. Birds of a feather gather no moss.”