"The liquid assets of the present owner of that dirt you're making so free with, Mr. Conway, total exactly sixty-seven dollars and nine cents. And I never thought the day would come when a pair of old-time Californians like us would stoop to counting copper pennies. Before I joined the army, I used to give them away to the cholo children, and when there were no youngsters handy to give the pennies to, I used to throw them away." "Yes," Bill Conway murmured sadly. "And I remember the roar that went up from the old-timers five years ago when the Palace Hotel in San Francisco reduced the price of three fingers of straight whisky from twenty-five cents to fifteen. Boy, they're crowding us out." "Who's been doing most of the crowding in San Marcos County while I've been away, Mr. Conway?" Farrel queried innocently. "Japs, my son. Say, they're comin' in here by the ship-load." "You don't tell me! Why, two years ago there wasn't a Jap in San Marcos County with the exception of a couple of shoemakers and a window-washing outfit in El Toro." "Well, those hombres aren't mending shoes or washing windows any more, Miguel. They saved their money and now they're farming--garden-truck mostly. There must be a thousand Japanese in the county now--all farmers or farm-laborers. They're leasing and buying every acre of fertile land they can get hold of." "Have they acquired much acreage?" "Saw a piece in the El Toro Sentinel last week to the effect that nine thousand and twenty acres have been alienated to the Japs up to the first of the year. Nearly all the white men have left La Questa valley since the Japs discovered they could raise wonderful winter celery there." "But where do these Japanese farmers come from, Mr. Conway?" Parker inquired. "They do not come from Japan because, under the gentlemen's agreement, Japan restricts emigration of her coolie classes."