There were a few details which set this apart as a Western town: the width of the street, the newness of the stores, the shininess of their white paint, and the network of electric lights hung over the centre of the street; also a man with a broad-brimmed hat, and a stunted old Indian mumbling his lips as he walked, and a solitary cowboy wearing “chaps.” “Elite Café,” said a white-painted sign, reading vertically; the word “Waffles” was painted on the window, and there was a menu tacked by the door, so that you could see what was offered, and the prices charged. There were tables along one side of the wall, and a counter along the other, with a row of broad backs in shirtsleeves and suspenders perched on top of little stools; this was the way if you wanted quick action, so Dad and the boy took two stools they found vacant. Dad was in his element in a place like this. He liked to “josh” the waitress; he knew all kinds of comic things to say, funny names for things to eat. He would order his eggs “sunny side up,” or “with their eyes open, please.” He would say, “Wrap the baby in the blanket,” and laugh over the waitress’ effort to realize that this meant a fried egg sandwich. He would chat with the rancher at his other side—learning about the condition of the wheat, and the prospects of prices for the orange and walnut crops; he was interested in everything like this, as a man who had oil to sell, to men who would buy more or less, according to what they got for their products. Dad owned land, too; he was always ready to “pick up” a likely piece, for there was oil all over Southern California, he said, and some day there would be an empire here.