"What do they do with these millions of grapes?" I asked Knowlton.
"Make grape-juice of them," he answered. "See—there's a grape juice factory over there."
It seemed to me a strange way of repaying Heaven's bounty, as I felt quite certain these same grapes would make excellent claret, but I knew better than to say this to Knowlton.
"I suppose," I said at last, as the vineyards began to get a little on my nerves, "that, like everything else over here, these are the largest vineyards in the world?"
"No," he surprised me by replying, "the California vineyards are much more extensive." Knowlton had a weakness for words like "extensive." When he abandoned slang he used in its place, not always accurately, a language of almost eighteenth century formality.
"There's Deep Harbor," he suddenly exclaimed in much excitement; "you can see the towers of the Polish cathedral."
"Polish cathedral?" I asked in utter amazement, thinking perhaps this was one of Knowlton's jokes.
"Sure. All the unskilled labour in Deep Harbor is Polish—that's their church. Just beyond are the chimneys of the Lake Board Paper Company. These are the yards—get your suit-case."
"Polish!" I thought. "Here is an unexpected complication." There was no time to ask more about the "sledded Polacks," for at that moment the train stopped with a jerk and we got off.
"Right on time—5.30 to the second," said Knowlton, consulting his watch. "We'll just go down State Street to Schaefer's Hotel, leave our grips, and get breakfast. Then to work."