CHAPTER VIII.
"For God's Sake, Give Me a Drop of Water."
I stayed in Tucson one night, and while knocking about the streets the next day I met a young man down at the depot who introduced himself as J. C. Allen, from some town in the East, which I have forgotten.
Allen had landed in Tucson but a few days before with about the same intentions I had, but for some reason had taken a violent dislike to the town, and now wanted to go to Los Angeles.
I had caught the fever of traveling pretty hard myself now, and as Allen was a sociable sort of chap as well as a good talker, it didn't take him long to convince me that Tucson was a poor town for us to remain in. Then, as two young fellows will, we soon came to an understanding that we would stick by each other through thick and thin and work our way to Los Angeles, Cal.
Like most fellows who stay in the West long, Allen was a great bull-con man (hot air man).
He told me they were already picking oranges around Los Angeles, and paying pickers the highest kind of prices.
My own common sense ought to have told me that this wasn't true, and that Allen merely wanted me to go with him for company, but I hadn't been in the West long, and the poorest kind of bull-con dealer found in me an easy mark.