“It’s more,” asserted Baker, “but not the same stuff.  The climate’s bully—­best little old climate they’ve made, up to date—­but it’s got to rain once in a while; and the wind’s got to blow; and all that.  If you believe the Weather in the Old Home column, you’ll be sore.  In two years you’ll be sore, anyway, whenever it does anything but stand 55 at night, 72 at noon and shine like the spotlight on the illustrated songster.  If a Californian sees a little white cloud about as big as a toy balloon down in the southeast corner he gets morose as a badger.  If it starts to drizzle what you’d call a light fog he holes up.  When it rains he hibernates like a bear, and the streets look like one of these populous and thriving Aztec metropoli you see down Sonora way.  I guess every man is privileged to get just about so sore on the weather wherever he is—­and does so.”

“You been out there long?” asked Bob.

“Ever since I graduated,” returned Baker promptly, “and I wouldn’t live anywhere else.  They’re doing real things.  Don’t you run away with any notions of dolce far nientes or tropical languor.  This California gang is strictly on the job.  The bunch seated under the spreading banana tree aren’t waiting for the ripe fruit to drop in their mouths.  That’s in the First Reader and maybe somewhere down among the Black and Tans—­”

“Black and Tans?” interrupted Bob with a note of query.

“Yep.  Oilers—­greasers—­Mexicans—­hidalgos of all kinds from here to the equator,” explained Baker.  “No, sir, that gang under the banana tree are either waiting there to sandbag the next tourist and sell him some real estate before he comes to, or else they’re figuring on uprooting said piffling shrub and putting up an office building.  Which part of the country are you going to?”

“Near White Oaks,” said Bob.

“No abalone shells for yours, eh?” remarked Baker cryptically.  He glanced at Welton.  “Where’s your timber located?” he asked.

“Near Granite,” replied Bob;—­“why, how the devil did you know we were out for timber?”

“‘How did the Master Mind solve that problem?’” asked Baker.  “Ah, that’s my secret!”

“No, that doesn’t go,” said Bob.  “I insist on knowing; and what was that abalone shell remark?”

“Abalone shells—­tourists,” capitulated Baker; “also Mexican drawn work, bead belts, burned leather, fake turquoise and ostrich eggs.  Sabe?”

“Sure.  But why not a tourist?”

“Tourist—­in White Oaks!” cried Baker.  “Son, White Oaks raises raisins and peaches and apricots and figs and such things in quantities to stagger you.  It is a nice, well-built city, and well conducted, and full of real estate boards and chambers of commerce.  But it is not framed up for tourists, and it knows it.  Not at 100 degrees Fahrenheit ’most all summer, and a chill and solemn land fog ’most all winter.”

“Well, why timber?” demanded Bob.