CHAPTER XXVIII—The Prize Winner
DICK WILLOUGHBY’S sensational escape from La Siesta had added another thrill to the mystery surrounding the murder of Marshall Thurston. But as week succeeded week without further incident, the affair gradually faded away as a topic of conversation. All the talk now was about the coming of the new town. The fever of speculation was in the air.
“Say, boys,” remarked Jack Rover one evening to his two cronies at the store, “I’m sure getting crazy about the new town. I’ve got a thousand bones of my own savings besides the money from old Pierre Luzon, and I’m going to invest every dangnation cent of it in town lots on opening day. You bet I’ll be there mighty early in the morning when the sale starts.”
“I’m sorta locoed myself,” said Baker, “about them lots in the new town. Guess I’ll grab off a few good corners. I look for an early rise—prices’ll go up like blazes,’ I’m ‘lowin’.”
Buck Ashley snorted contemptuously. “Say, you fellers are two dippy ones. That new town talk is a lot o’ hot air, d’you hear? Jest the agitatin’ work of them pesky town boomers. Won’t ‘mount to nothin’.”
Jack Rover started a defence, but was quickly motioned to silence by old Tom Baker, who, after clearing his throat, pushed his hat back and glared at Buck Ashley.
“Buck,” said he, “you’re a thick-headed fool. The openin’ of that town will amount to one hell of a sight, don’t you fergit it. Why, that Los Angeles syndicate cuss who’s a-runnin’ the machine is sharper than a razor blade. Just think for one little puny moment,” Tom Baker went on, enthusiastically, “of that printed notice being in every blamed newspaper in the whole country—yes, and on the other side of the Atlantic pond—offerin’ ten thousand dollars for the best plans for an ideal city. Gosh all hemlock, they do say as how the mails were just chuck full of answers—architect fellers as well as them as ain’t architects, a-tryin’ to get their hooks on that ten-thousand-dollar prize. It was a mighty smart business notion, I’m a-tellin’ you, and has boomed the town to beat the band.”
“But,” inquired Buck Ashley, in a sarcastic way, “who is confounded fool enough to buy lots in such a wild-cat scheme, no matter how much they advertise it? That’s what I’m askin’.”
“I will, for one,” said Jack Rover. “As I said before, I’m going to put in my last dollar.”