“Adrian has determined to buy some of these mud-lots,” said Windham to his son.  “He believes some day they will be valuable and that he will make his fortune.”  He sighed.  “I fear my son-to-be is something of a visionary.”

Benito gave his father a quick, almost furtive glance.  “Do not condemn him for that,” he said, with a hint of reproach.  “Adrian is far-sighted, yes; but not a dreamer.”

“What can he do with a square of bog that is covered half of the time by water?” asked Windham.

“Ah,” Benito said, “we’ve talked that over, Adrian and I. Adrian has a plan of reclamation.  An engineering project for leveling sandhills by contract and using the waste to cover his land.  He has already arranged for ox-teams and wagons.  It is perfectly feasible, my father.”

Robert Windham smiled at the other’s enthusiasm.  “Perhaps you are right,” he said.  “God grant it—­and justify your faith in that huddle of huts below.”

Below them a man had mounted an improvised platform.  He was waving his arms, haranguing an ever-growing audience.  Benito stirred uneasily.  “I must go,” he said.  “I promised Adrian to join him.”

“Very well,” returned his father.  He watched the slight and supple figure riding down the slope.

Slowly he made his way back to the Rancho Briones.  His wife met him at the gate.

“Juana and Inez have gone to the sale,” she announced.  “Shall we join them in the pueblo later on?”

“Nay, Anita,” he said, “unless you wish it....  I have no faith in mire.”

She looked up at him anxiously.  “Roberto!  I grieve to hear it.  They—­” she checked herself.

“They—­what, my love?” he asked curiously.

“They have gone to buy,” said Anita.  “Juana has great faith.  She has considerable money.  And Inez has taken her jewels—­even a few of mine.  The Senor O’Farrell whispered to her at the ball that the lots would sell for little and their value would increase immensely.”

“So, that is why Benito has his silver-mounted harness,” Windham spoke half to himself.  He smiled a little ruefully.  “You are all gamblers, dreamers....  You dear ones of Spanish heritage.”

* * * * *

On the beach a strangely varied human herd pressed close around a platform upon which stood Samuel Brannan and Alcalde Hyde.  The former had promised to act as auctioneer and looked over a sheaf of notes while Hyde in his dry, precise and positive tone read the details of the forthcoming sale.  It would last three days, Hyde informed his hearers, and 450 lots would be sold.  North of the broad street paralleling the Mission Camino lots were sixteen and a half varas wide and fifty varas deep.  All were between the limits of low and high water mark.

“What’s a vara?” shouted a new arrival.

“A Spanish yard,” explained Hyde, “about thirty-three and a third inches of English measure.  Gentlemen, you are required to fence your lots and build a house within a year.  The fees for recording and deed will be $3.62, and the terms of payment are a fourth down, the balance in equal payments during a period of eighteen months.”