He pulled himself together, and we followed another clue out in Altadena. As we neared the great range of the Sierra Madre mountains, I felt, as children say, we were "getting warm." They towered crisp and clear, like theatrical scenery, and their lower slopes lay pleasantly exposed to the sun. The agent protested that I would find it unpleasant to live so far out.
"What is one near, if one lives further in?" I asked, not unkindly.
I was almost ready to return to Los Angeles with the resolve of seeking another agent on the next day, when we really came across a charming little bungalow standing all by itself on irrigated land. The agent was contemptuous; the locality was not fashionable; he had many other objections. Overhead the mountains fairly hung upon us. All around was open land, unbuilt upon. The house itself was new, comfortable, and of the right size. To the agent's disgust and the landlord's amazement, I paid a month's rent in advance, upon the spot, and with my own hands took down the "For Rent" sign.
One difficulty developed at the last moment.
"Your wife isn't a lunger, is she?" the landlord inquired.
"A what?" I asked.
"Lunger. Has she got T.B.? Because, if she has, I don't want her in no house of mine. Can't rent a bungalow out here after any one has died of tuberculosis in it."
"My wife is only slightly ill."
"They all say that," remarked the landlord.
"Will you let me have it for more rent?"