"Near Granite," replied Bob;--"why, how the devil did you know we were out for timber?" "'How did the Master Mind solve that problem?'" asked Baker. "Ah, that's my secret!" "No, that doesn't go," said Bob. "I insist on knowing; and what was that abalone shell remark?" "Abalone shells--tourists," capitulated Baker; "also Mexican drawn work, bead belts, burned leather, fake turquoise and ostrich eggs. Sabe?" "Sure. But why not a tourist?" "Tourist--in White Oaks!" cried Baker. "Son, White Oaks raises raisins and peaches and apricots and figs and such things in quantities to stagger you. It is a nice, well-built city, and well conducted, and full of real estate boards and chambers of commerce. But it is not framed up for tourists, and it knows it. Not at 100 degrees Fahrenheit 'most all summer, and a chill and solemn land fog 'most all winter." "Well, why timber?" demanded Bob. "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?"