“A bit of mountain scenery on the prairie,” said Jim. “And more than that, or less than that, just as you look at it, it’s the source from which inexhaustible supplies of stone will be quarried when we begin to build things.”
“But won’t that spoil it?” said Alice.
“Well, yes; and down on that bottom we’ve found as good clay for pottery, sewer-pipes, and paving-brick as exists anywhere. Back there where you saw that bluff along the river—looks as if it’s sliding down into the water—remember it? Well, there’s probably the only place in the world where there’s just the juxtaposition of sand and clay and chalk to make Portland cement. Supply absolutely unlimited! Why, there ought to be a thousand men employed right now in those cement works. Oh, I tell you, things’ll hum here when we get these schemes working!”
We laughed at him: his visualization of the cement works was so complete.
“I suppose you know where all the capital is coming from,” said I, “to do all these things? For my part, I see no way of getting it except our old plan of buccaneering.”
“Exactly my idea!” said he. “Didn’t I write you that I’d enroll you as a member of the band? Has Al ever told you, Mrs. Barslow, of our old times, when we, as individuals, were passing through our sixteenth-century stage?”
“Often,” Alice replied. “He looks back upon his pirate days as a time of Arcadian simplicity, ‘Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin.’”
“I can easily understand,” said Jim reflectively, “how piracy might appear in that roseate light after a few years of practical politics. Now from the moral heights of a life-insurance man’s point of view it’s different.”
So we rode on chatting and chaffing, now of the old time, now of the new; and all the time I felt more and more impressed by the dissolving views which Jim gave us of different parts of his program for making Lattimore the metropolis of “the world’s granary,” as he called the surrounding country. As we topped a low hill on our way back, he pulled up, to give us a general view of the town and suburbs, and of the great expanse of farming country beyond. Between us and Lattimore was a mile stretch of gently descending road, with grain-fields and farm-houses on each side.
“By the way,” said he, “do you see that white house and red barn in the maple grove off to the right? Well, you remember Bill Trescott?”