Part 41 (1/2)
”The City Park,” they says, ”should allus be next the public buildin's.”
”The City Park,” says Buckshot Milliken, ”will likely be further north, right agin the University. I _know_--fer the reason that they was a meetin' of the University _di_rectors last night. Then, the Farmers'
and Merchants' Bank is goin' to be located facin' the Park, and so is the Grand Op'ra House.”
Porky gave Buckshot a' awful sharp look. But Buckshot's a' Injun when it comes to actin' innocenter'n a kitten. So then the millionaire gent looked _tickled_ ('cause, just think!--if we was _ex_cited a'ready about a boom, what a pile of trouble it'd save him and his pardners!) Wal, he waddled off and hunted 'em up. And that night they pur_chased_ 'most all of them north lots--payin' good.
It was the next mornin' that they got holt of ole man Sewell and bought the Andrews place. Sewell wasn't _on_--he hadn't been into town since I come from Goldstone. But the real-estate gent was used to puttin' up a good figger by now, and the boss made a fair haul.
Right off, the Andrews chunk was laid out in fifty-foot lots. It was just rows and _rows_ of white stakes, and when the West-bound was stopped at the deepot fer grub, I seen Bill Rawson pointin' them stakes out to two poor ole white-haired women. ”Ladies,” he says, ”that's the battlefield where Crook fit the Kiowas. Ev'ry stake's a stiff.”
As the train pulled out, she was tipped all to one side kinda, and runnin' on her off wheels, 'cause the pa.s.s'ngers was herded along the west side of the cars, lookin' at that big graveyard.
When Hank's next _Eye-Opener_ come out, one hull side of it was covered with a map of Briggs City--drawed three mile square, so's to take in what Mrs. Bergin had left. Under the map it said, ”_The left-hand cross marks the position of the West Oklahomaw Observatory, which is to be built on top of Rogers's b.u.t.te, and the cross in the Andrews Addition marks the spot where the great Sanatarium'll stand._” (Say!
it was gittin' to be a cold day in Briggs when somebody didn't start a grand, new inst.i.tootion!) ”_Why,_” goes on Shackleton, in that piece of hisn, ”_breathin' that fine crick-bottom air, and on a plain diet--say, of bread and clabbered milk, a sick person oughta git cured up easy, and a healthy person oughta live more'n a hunderd years._”
(Wal, as far as _I'_m concerned, if I had to eat clabbered milk a hunderd years, I'd ruther _die!_)
Next thing, two 'r three of the boys got into a reg'lar jawin'-match over some property. Chub Flannagan wanted to start a new paper called the _Rip-Saw_. Shackleton, a-course, didn't want he should. Right in front of that real-estate feller's, Chub drawed a gun on Hank. And Monkey Mike had to interfere 'twixt them.
”I got a right to do what I please on my own land,” yells Chub.
”Wal, I'll buy you' blamed lots,” says Shackleton, ”but I don't stand fer compyt.i.tion. Here, agent, what's Chub's block worth?”
The dude reckoned it was worth five hunderd. And Shackleton dug down like a man!
The rest of us done a turrible lot of buyin' and sellin' right after that--one to the other. The sheriff sold to Sam Barnes (fer a chaw of t'bacca); Bill Rawson, he sold to me (on tick); Hairoil Johnson to Dutchy, and so forth. 'R, it'd be like this: ”Bet you a lot I can jump the furth'est.” ”Bet you cain't.” Then real estate 'd change hands, and the _Tarantula_ 'd talk about ”a lively market.”
A-course, the dude and Porky, and the doc and the new parson was doin' some buyin', too. 'Fore long, they owned all Bergin had, and Shackleton's, and Chub's, and Rawson's, and Johnson's, and mine. And they picked out a place fer the Deef, Dumb, and Blind Asylum; and named ole man Sewell fer President of the Briggs City Pott'ry works.
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”_I'll buy you blamed lots, but I don't stand fer compyt.i.tion_”]
Pretty soon, havin' all the land they wanted, they begun, steady by jerks, to sell each other, notice of them sales appearin' in the _Eye-Opener_ at two-bits apiece. Next, they got to sellin' faster.
Then, it was dawg eat dawg. Lickin' things into a' _ex_citin' pa.s.s, them lots of theirn flew back'ards and for'ards till the air was plumb full of sand. When the sun went down that never-to-be-fergot evenin' (as the speaker allus says at a _po_litical pow-wow), ole Briggs City was the colour of mesquite. But the pockets of the punchers was so chuck full that, as the hours drug by, our growin' city got redder 'n a section-house, 'cause the boys was busy paintin' it. (But count _me_ out--I had my draw-down, and I was a-hangin' _on_ to it.) Whilst over at the real-estate shack, them gun-shy gents was havin'
a quiet, little business talk, gittin' ready fer they onloadin'
campaign next day.
About ten o'clock, I stopped by they shebang and knocked. When the door was opened, here they all sit, makin' out more deeds 'n you could shake a stick at. I didn't go in. I figgered I'd be gittin' married soon; and no feller wants his face spotted up like a Sioux chief's on his weddin' day.
”Gents,” I says, ”the boys sent me over to thank you all fer pur_chasin'_ property hereabouts in such a blamed gen'rous way. And it's sh.o.r.e too bad that _they_ feel they cain't invest. But they plan to wait a year, and buy in what you got fer taxes.”
Fer as long as you could count ten, not a' one of 'em said a word. Then the doc stood up. ”Who in thunder are _you?_” he ast, voice like a frog.
”Why,” I answers, ”don't you recollect _me?_ I'm Cupid here; but, down at Goldstone, I was the owner of the Lloyd Addition.”
They jumped like they'd been stuck with a pin. ”The Lloyd Addition!”
they kinda hisses.
”Yas,” I goes on. ”So I reckon you realise that it wouldn't be no use fer Mister Real-Estate Agent, here, to git three-sheets-in-the-wind, and then let out his grand natu'al development secret; 'r fer our millionaire friend to go send hisself a telegram from Rockafeller.
Gent's you' little Briggs City boom is busted.”