“No.”
“Why aren’t you going?”
“Because we want to do this part of the country.”
“But there’s nothing here but sand. Look here, you can go to California just as well as not. You’ll get a climate there. You won’t have any trouble with the roads, if that is what is troubling you. The roads are wonderful,—nothing like here. You’ll find a live state across the border,—only ninety miles by Yuma. A little sand—then good roads all the way.”
“Yes, but we don’t want good roads. We want to stay in Arizona.”
A long pause, “You want to stay in Arizona?”
“Yes.”
“But California is only ninety miles away.”
“But we like Arizona better.”
Wounded incredulity. “Oh, you can’t. You’ve got sand and cactus here,—just a blamed desert. And look at California, the garden spot of the world. Roads like boulevards, scenery, live towns, everything you’ve got in the East, and a climate! Now, I tell you. Here’s what you do. I know California like a book, born there, thank God. You let me plan your route. You go to San Diego, work up the coast, see the Missions, Los Angeles, San Francisco,—say, that’s a town,—and then up to Seattle. You’ll have good roads all the way.”