“My dear Watson,” said Baker, indicating Mr. Welton, who grinned.  “Does your side partner resemble a raisin raiser?  Has he the ear marks of a gentle agriculturist?  Would you describe him as a typical sheepman, or as a daring and resolute bee-keeper?”

Bob shook his head, still unconvinced.

“Well, if you will uncover my dark methods,” sighed Baker.  He leaned over and deftly abstracted from the breast pocket of Bob’s coat a long, narrow document.  “You see the top of this stuck out in plain sight.  To the intelligent eye instructed beyond the second grade of our excellent school system the inscription cannot be mistaken.”  He held it around for Bob to see.  In plain typing the document was endorsed as follows: 

“Granite County Timber Lands.”

“My methods are very subtle,” said Baker, laughing.  “I find it difficult to explain them.  Come around sometime and I’ll pick it out for you on the piano.”

“Where are you going?” asked Bob in his turn.

“Los Angeles, on business.”

“On business?—­or just buying abalone shells?”

“It takes a millionaire or an Iowa farmer to be a tourist,” replied Baker.

“What are you doing?”

“Supporting an extravagant wife, I tell Mrs. Baker.  You want to get down that way.  The town’s a marvel.  It’s grown from thirty thousand to two hundred thousand in twenty years; it has enough real estate subdivisions to accommodate eight million; it has invented the come-on house built by the real estate agents to show how building is looking up at Lonesomehurst; it has two thousand kinds of architecture—­all different; it has more good stuff and more fake stuff than any place on earth—­it’s a wonder.  Come on down and I’ll show you the high buildings.”

He chatted for a few moments, then rose abruptly and disappeared down the aisle toward the sleeping cars without the formality of a farewell.

Welton had been listening amusedly, and puffing away at his cigar in silence.

“Well,” said he when Baker had gone.  “How do you like your friend?”

“He’s certainly amusing,” laughed Bob, “and mighty good company.  That sort of a fellow is lots of fun.  I’ve seen them many times coming back at initiation or Commencement.  They are great heroes to the kids.”

“But not to any one else?” inquired Welton.

“Well—­that’s about it,” Bob hesitated.  “They’re awfully good fellows, and see the joke, and jolly things up; but they somehow don’t amount to much.”

“Wouldn’t think much of the scheme of trying Baker as woods foreman up in our timber, then?” suggested Welton.

“Him?  Lord, no!” said Bob, surprised.

Welton threw back his head and laughed heartily, in great salvos.

“Ho! ho! ho!” he shouted.  “Oh, Bobby, I wish any old Native Son could be here to enjoy this joke with me.  Ho! ho! ho! ho!”

The coloured porter stuck his head in to see what this tremendous rolling noise might be, grinned sympathetically, and withdrew.