more like big steamboats.'
'Tell her about Chow Lam,' Billy urged.
The commission merchant leaned back and laughed.
'Chow Lam, several years ago, was a broken-down fan tan player. He hadn't a cent, and his health was going back on him. He had worn out his back with twenty years' work in the gold mines, washing over the tailings of the early miners. And whatever he'd made he'd lost at gambling. Also, he was in debt three hundred dollars to the Six Companies-you know, they're Chinese affairs. And, remember, this was only seven years ago-health breaking down, three hundred in debt, and no trade. Chow Lam blew into Stockton and got a job on the peat lands at day's wages. It was a Chinese company, down on Middle River, that farmed celery and asparagus. This was when he got onto himself and took stock of himself. A quarter of a century in the United States, back not so strong as it used to was, and not a penny laid by for his return to China. He saw how the Chinese in the company had done it-saved their wages and bought a share.
'He saved his wages for two years, and bought one share in a thirty-share company. That was only five years ago. They leased three hundred acres of peat land from a white man who preferred traveling in Europe. Out of the profits of that one share in the first year, he bought two shares in another company. And in a year more, out of the three shares, he organized a company of his own. One year of this, with bad luck, and he just broke even. That brings it up to three years ago. The following year, bumper crops, he netted four thousand. The next year it wan five thousand. And last year he cleaned up nineteen thousand dollars. Pretty good, eh, for old broken-down Chow Lam?'
'My!' was all Saxon could say.
Her eager interest, however, incited the commission merchant to go on.
'Look at Sing Kee-the Potato King of Stockton. I know him well. I've had more large deals with him and made less money than with any man I know. He was only a coolie, and he smuggled himself into the United States twenty years ago. Started at day's wages, then peddled vegetables in a couple of baskets slung on a stick, and after that opened up a store in Chinatown in San Francisco. But he had a head on him, and he was soon onto the curves of the Chinese farmers that dealt at his store. The store couldn't make money fast enough to suit him. He headed up the San Joaquin. Didn't do much for a couple of years except keep his eyes peeled. Then he jumped in and leased twelve hundred acres at seven dollars an acre.'
'My God!' Billy said in an awe-struck voice. 'Eight thousan', four hundred dollars just for rent the first year. I know five hundred acres I can buy for three dollars an acre.'
'Will it grow potatoes?' Gunston asked.
Billy shook his head. 'Nor nothin' else, I guess.'
All three laughed heartily and the commission merchant resumed:
'That seven dollars was only for the land. Possibly you know what it costs to plow twelve hundred acres?'
Billy nodded solemnly.
'And he got a hundred and sixty sacks to the acre that year,' Gunston continued. 'Potatoes were selling at fifty cents. My father was at the head of our concern at the time, so I know for a fact. And Sing Kee could have sold at fifty cents and made money. But did he? Trust a Chinaman to know the market. They can skin the commission merchants at it. Sing Kee held on. When 'most everybody else had sold, potatoes began to climb. He laughed at our buyers when we offered him sixty cents, seventy cents, a dollar. Do you want to know what he finally did sell for? One dollar and sixty-five a sack. Suppose they actually cost him forty cents. A hundred and sixty times twelve hundred… let me see… twelve times nought is nought and twelve times sixteen is a hundred and ninety-two… a hundred and ninety-two thousand sacks at a dollar and a quarter net… four into a hundred and ninety-two is forty- eight, plus, is two hundred and forty-there you are, two hundred and forty thousand dollars clear profit on that year's deal.'
'An' him a Chink,' Billy mourned disconsolately. He turned to Saxon. 'They ought to be some new country for us white folks to go to. Gosh!-we're settin' on the stoop all right, all right.'
'But, of course, that was unusual,' Glunston hastened to qualify. 'There was a failure of potatoes in other districts, and a corner, and in some strange way Sing Kee was dead on. He never made profits like that again. But he goes ahead steadily. Last year he had four thousand acres in potatoes, a thousand in asparagus, five hundred in celery and five hundred in beans. And he's running six hundred acres in seeds. No matter what happens to one or two crops, he can't lose on all of them.'
'I've seen twelve thousand acres of apple trees,' Saxon said. 'And I'd like to see four thousand acres in potatoes.'
'And we will,' Billy rejoined with great positiveness. 'It's us for the San Joaquin. We don't know what's in our country. No wonder we're out on the stoop.'
'You'll find lots of kings up there,' Gunston related. 'Yep Hong Lee-they call him 'Big Jim,' and Ah Pock, and Ah Whang, and-then there's Shima, the Japanese potato king. He's worth several millions. Lives like a prince.'
'Why don't Americans succeed like that?' asked Saxon.
'Because they won't, I guess. There's nothing to stop them except themselves. I'll tell you one thing, though-give me the Chinese to deal with. He's honest. His word is as good as his bond. If he says he'll do a thing, he'll do it. And, anyway, the white man doesn't know how to farm. Even the up-to-date white farmer is content with one crop at a time and rotation of crops. Mr. John Chinaman goes him one better, and grows two crops at one time on the same soil. I've seen it-radishes and carrots, two crops, sown at one time.'
'Which don't stand to reason,' Billy objected. 'They'd be only a half crop of each.'
'Another guess coming,' Gunston jeered. 'Carrots have to be thinned when they're so far along. So do radishes. But carrots grow slow. Radishes grow fast. The slow-going carrots serve the purpose of thinning the radishes. And when the radishes are pulled, ready for market, that thins the carrots, which come along later. You can't beat the Chink.'
'Don't see why a white man can't do what a Chink can,' protested Billy.
'That sounds all right,' Gunston replied. 'The only objection is that the white man doesn't. The Chink is busy all the time, and he keeps the ground just as busy. He has organization, system. Who ever heard of white farmers keeping books? The Chink does. No guess work with him. He knows just where he stands, to a cent, on any crop at any moment. And he knows the market. He plays both ends. How he does it is beyond me, but he knows the market better than we commission merchants.
'Then, again, he's patient but not stubborn. Suppose he does make a mistake, and gets in a crop, and then finds the market is wrong. In such a situation the white man gets stubborn and hangs on like a bulldog. But not the Chink. He's going to minimize the losses of that mistake. That land has got to work, and make money. Without a quiver or a regret, the moment he's learned his error, he puts his plows into that crop, turns it under, and plants something else. He has the savve. He can look at a sprout, just poked up out of the ground, and tell how it's going to turn out-whether it will head up or won't head up; or if it's going to head up good, medium, or bad. That's one end. Take the other end. He controls his crop. He forces it or holds it back with an eye on the market. And when the market is just right, there's his crop, ready to deliver, timed to the minute.'
The conversation with Gunston lasted hours, and the more he talked of the Chinese and their farming ways the more Saxon became aware of a growing dissatisfaction. She did not question the facts. The trouble was that they were not alluring. Somehow, she could not find place for them in her valley of the moon. It was not until the genial Jew left the train that Billy gave definite statement to what was vaguely bothering her.
'Huh! We ain't Chinks. We're white folks. Does a Chink ever want to ride a horse, hell-bent for election an' havin' a good time of it? Did you ever see a Chink go swimmin' out through the breakers at Carmel?-or boxin', wrestlin', runnin' an' jumpin' for the sport of it? Did you ever see a Chink take a shotgun on his arm, tramp six miles, an' come back happy with one measly rabbit? What does a Chink do? Work his damned head off. That's all he's good for. To hell with work, if that's the whole of the game-an' I've done my share of work, an' I can work alongside of any of 'em. But what's the good? If they's one thing I've learned solid since you an' me hit the road, Saxon, it is that work's the least part of life. God!-if it was all of life I couldn't cut my throat quick enough to get away from it. I want shotguns an' rifles, an' a horse between my legs. I don't want to be so tired all the time I can't love my wife. Who wants to be rich an' clear two hundred an' forty thousand on a potato deal! Look at Rockefeller. Has to live on milk. I want porterhouse and a stomach that can bite sole-leather. An' I want you, an' plenty of time along with you, an' fun for both of us. What's the good of life if they ain't no fun?'
