“Get fat yourself while you're about it, Presley,” he observed, as the two stood up and shook hands.
“There shouldn't be any lack of food on a wheat ship. Bread enough, surely.”
“Little monotonous, though. 'Man cannot live by bread alone.' Well, you're really off. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, sir.”
And as Presley issued from the building and stepped out into the street, he was abruptly aware of a great wagon shrouded in white cloth, inside of which a bass drum was being furiously beaten. On the cloth, in great letters, were the words:
“Vote for Lyman Derrick, Regular Republican Nominee for Governor of California.”
The “Swanhilda” lifted and rolled slowly, majestically on the ground swell of the Pacific, the water hissing and boiling under her forefoot, her cordage vibrating and droning in the steady rush of the trade winds. It was drawing towards evening and her lights had just been set. The master passed Presley, who was leaning over the rail smoking a cigarette, and paused long enough to remark:
“The land yonder, if you can make it out, is Point Gordo, and if you were to draw a line from our position now through that point and carry it on about a hundred miles further, it would just about cross Tulare County not very far from where you used to live.”
“I see,” answered Presley, “I see. Thanks. I am glad to know that.”