“It’s the humidity and close air that kills,” said Blake. “I ought to know. I lived for years in the slums.”
“Oh, you––you really speak of it––openly!” the girl exclaimed.
“What of it?” he asked, astonished in turn at her lack of tact.
“Nothing––nothing,” she hastened to disclaim. “Only I know––have read about the dreadful conditions in the Chicago slums. It is––it must be so painful to recall them––That was so rude of me to––”
“Not at all,” he interrupted. To cover her evident confusion he held up his white hand in the scorching sunrays and commented jovially: “Talk about Eastern heat––this is a hundred and five Fahrenheit at the very least! A-a-ah!” He drew in a deep breath of the dry pure air. “This is something like! When you get your land under ditch, you’ll have a paradise.”
“Oh, but you do not understand,” she replied. “We want you to find out and tell us that Dry Mesa cannot be watered. Irrigation would break up Daddy’s range and put him out of business. It is just what we do not want.” 154
“I see,” said Blake, with instant comprehension of the situation.
“I know it cannot be done. But there are so many reclamation projects, and Daddy has read and read about them until he almost has a bee in his bonnet.”
“Yet you sent for me––an engineer.”
“Because I knew that when you told him our mesa couldn’t be watered, he would stop worrying. You know, you are quite a hero with us. We have read all about your wonderful work.”