California, Southern -- Fiction; Motion picture industry -- Fiction; Petroleum industry and trade -- Fiction; Political fiction
They were passing through a broad valley, miles upon miles of wheat
fields, shining green in the sun; in the distance were trees, with
glimpses of a house here and there. “Are you looking for a Home?”
inquired a friendly sign. “Santa Ynez is a place for folks. Good water,
cheap land, seven churches. See Sprouks and Knuckleson, Realtors.” And
presently the road broadened out, with a line of trees in the middle,
and there began to be houses on each side. “Drive slow and see our city;
drive fast and see our jail,” proclaimed a big board—“By Order of the
Municipal Council of Santa Ynez.” Dad slowed down to twenty-five miles;
for it was a favorite trick of town marshals and justices of the peace
to set speed-traps for motorists coming from the country, with engines
keyed up to country rates of speed; they would haul you up and soak you
a big fine—and you had a vision of these new-style highwaymen spending
your dollars in riotous living. That was something else Dad was going to
stop, he said—such fines ought to go to the state, and be used for
road-repairs.
“Business zone, 15 miles per hour.” The main street of Santa Ynez was a
double avenue, with two lines of cars parked obliquely in the centre of
it, and another line obliquely against each curb. You crept along
through a lane, watching for a car that was backing out, and you dived
into the vacant place, just missing the fender of the car at your right.
Dad got out, and took off his overcoat, and folded it carefully, outside
in, the sleeves inside; that was something he was particular about,
having kept a general store, which included “Gents’ Clothing.” He and
Bunny laid their coats neatly in the rear compartment, locked safe, and
then strolled down the sidewalk, watching the ranchers of Santa Ynez
valley, and the goods which the stores displayed for them. This was the
United States, and the things on sale were the things you would have
seen in store-windows on any other Main Street, the things known as
“nationally advertised products.” The ranchman drove to town in a
nationally advertised auto, pressing the accelerator with a nationally
advertised shoe; in front of the drug-store he found a display of
nationally advertised magazines, containing all the nationally
advertised advertisements of the nationally advertised articles he would
take back to the ranch.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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