The Valley of the Moon Jack London

with a good head like yours can win jobs anywhere. But think of

  the handicaps on the fellows who lose. How many tramps have you

  met along the road who could get a job driving four horses for

  the Carmel Livery Stabler And some of them were as husky as you

  when they were young. And on top of it all you've got no shout

  coming. It's a mighty big come-down from gambling for a continent

  to gambling for a job."

  "Just the same--" Billy recommenced.

  "Oh, you've got it in your blood," Hall cut him off cavalierly.

  "And why not? Everybody in this country has been gambling for

  generations. It was in the air when you were born. You've

  breathed it all your life. You, who 've never had a white chip in

  the game, still go on shouting for it and capping for it."

  "But what are all of us losers to do?" Saxon inquired.

  "Call in the police and stop the game," Hall recommended. "It's

  crooked."

  Saxon frowned.

  "Do what your forefathers didn't do," he amplified. "Go ahead and

  perfect democracy."

  She remembered a remark of Mercedes. "A friend of mine says that

  democracy is an enchantment."

  "It is--in a gambling joint. There are a million boys in our

  public schools right now swallowing the gump of canal boy to

  President, and millions of worthy citizens who sleep sound every

  night in the belief that they have a say in running the country."

  "You talk like my brother Tom," Saxon said, failing to

  comprehend. "If we all get into politics and work hard for

  something better maybe we'll get it after a thousand years or so.

  But I want it now." She clenched her hands passionately. "I can't

  wait; I want it now."

  "But that is just what I've been telling you, my dear girl.

  That's what's the trouble with all the losers. They can't wait.

  They want it now--a stack of chips and a fling at the game. Well,

  they won't get it now. That's what's the matter with you, chasing

  a valley in the moon. That's what's the matter with Billy, aching

  right now for a chance to win ten cents from me at Pedro cussing

  wind-chewing under his breath."

  "Gee! you'd make a good soap-boxer," commented Billy.

  "And I'd be a soap-boxer if I didn't have the spending of my

  father's ill-gotten gains. It's none of my affair. Islet them

  rot. They'd be just as bad if they were on top. It's all a

  mess--blind bats, hungry swine, and filthy buzzards--"

  Here Mrs. Hall interferred.

  "Now, Mark, you stop that, or you'll be getting the blues."

  He tossed his mop of hair and laughed with an effort.

  "No I won't," he denied. "I'm going to get ten cents from Billy

  at a game of Pedro. He won't have a look in."

  Saxon and Billy flourished in the genial human atmosphere of

  Carmel. They appreciated in their own estimation. Saxon felt that

  she was something more than a laundry girl and the wife of a

  union teamster. She was no longer pent in the narrow working

  class environment of a Pine street neighborhood. Life had grown

  opulent. They fared better physically, materially, and

  spiritually; and all this was reflected in their features, in the

  carriage of their bodies. She knew Billy had never been handsomer

  nor in more splendid bodily condition. He swore he had a harem,

  and that she was his second wife--twice as beautiful as the

  first one he had married. And she demurely confessed to him that

  Mrs. Hall and several others of the matrons had enthusiastically

  admired her form one day when in for a cold dip in Carmel river.

  They had got around her, and called her Venus, and made her

  crouch and assume different poses.

  Billy understood the Venus reference; for a marble one, with

  broken arms, stood in Hall's living room, and the poet had told

  him the world worshiped it as the perfection of female form.

  "I always said you had Annette Kellerman beat a mile," Billy

  said; and so proud was his air of possession that Saxon blushed

  and trembled, and hid her hot face against his breast.

  The men in the crowd were open in their admiration of Saxon, in

  an above-board manner. But she made no mistake. She did not lose

  her head. There was no chance of that, for her love for Billy

  beat more strongly than ever. Nor was she guilty of

  over-appraisal. She knew him for what he was, and loved him with

  open eyes. He had no book learning, no art, like the other men.

  His grammar was bad; she knew that, just as she knew that he

  would never mend it. Yet she would not have exchanged him for any

  of the others, not even for Mark Hall with the princely heart

  whom she loved much in the same way that she loved his wife.

  For that matter, she found in Billy a certain health and

  rightness, a certain essential integrity, which she prized more

  highly than all book learning and bank accounts. It was by virtue

  of this health, and rightness, and integrity, that he had beaten

  Hall in argument the night the poet was on the pessimistic

  rampage. Billy had beaten him, not with the weapons of learning,

  but just by being himself and by speaking out the truth that was

  in him. Best of all, he had not even known that he had beaten,

  and had taken the applause as good-natured banter. But Saxon

  knew, though she could scarcely tell why; and she would always

  remember how the wife of Shelley had whispered to her afterward

  with shining eyes: "Oh, Saxon, you must be so happy."

  Were Saxon driven to speech to attempt to express what Billy

  meant to her, she would have done it with the simple word "man."

  Always he was that to her. Always in glowing splendor, that was

  his connotation--MAN. Sometimes, by herself, she would all but

  weep with joy at recollection of his way of informing some

  truculent male that he was standing on his foot. "Get off your

  foot. You're standin' on it." It was Billy! It was magnificently

  Billy. And it was this Billy who loved her. She knew it. She knew

  it by the pulse that only a woman knows how to gauge. He loved

  her less wildly, it was true; but more fondly, more maturely. It

  was the love that lasted--if only they did not go back to the

  city where the beautiful things of the spirit perished and the

  beast bared its fangs.

  In the early spring, Mark Hall and his wife went to New York, the

  two Japanese servants of the bungalow were dismissed, and Saxon

  and Billy were installed as caretakers. Jim Hazard, too, departed

  on his yearly visit to Paris; and though Billy missed him, he

  continued his long swims out through the breakers. Hall's two

  saddle horses had been left in his charge, and Saxon made herself

  a pretty cross-saddle riding costume of tawny-brown corduroy that

  matched the glints in her hair. Billy no longer worked at odd

  jobs. As extra driver at the stable he earned more than they

  spent, and, in preference to cash, he taught Saxon to ride, and

  was out and away with her over the country on all-day trips. A

  favorite ride was around by the coast to Monterey, where he

  taught her to swim in the big Del Monte tank. They would come


  home in the evening across the hills. Also, she took to following

  him on his early morning hunts, and life seemed one long

  vacation.

  "I'll tell you one thing," he said to Saxon, one day, as they

  drew their horses to a halt and gazed down into Carmel Valley. "I

  ain't never going to work steady for another man for wages as

  long as I live."

  "Work isn't everything," she acknowledged.

  "I should guess not. Why, look here, Saxon, what'd it mean if I

  worked teamin' in Oakland for a million dollars a day for a

  million years and just had to go on stayin' there an' livin' the

  way we used to? It'd mean work all day, three squares, an' movie'

  pictures for recreation. Movin' pictures! Huh! We're livin'

  movie' pictures these days. I'd sooner have one year like what

  we're havin' here in Carmel and then die, than a thousan' million

  years like on Pine street."

  Saxon had warned the Halls by letter that she and Billy intended

  starting on their search for the valley in the moon as soon as

  the first of summer arrived. Fortunately, the poet was put to no

  inconvenience, for Bideaux, the Iron Man with the basilisk eyes,

  had abandoned his dreams of priesthood and decided to become an

  actor. He arrived at Carmel from the Catholic college in time to

  take charge of the bungalow.

  Much to Saxon's gratification, the crowd was loth to see them

  depart. The owner of the Carmel stable offered to put Billy in

  charge at ninety dollars a month. Also, he received a similar

  offer from the stable in Pacific Grove.

  "Whither away," the wild Irish playwright hailed them on the

  station platform at Monterey. He was just returning from New

  York.

  "To a valley in the moon," Saxon answered gaily.

  He regarded their business-like packs.

  "By George!" he cried. "I'll do it! By George! Let me come

  along." Then his face fell. "And I've signed the contract," he

  groaned. "Three acts! Say, you're lucky. And this time of year,

  too."

  CHAPTER XI

  "We hiked into Monterey last winter, but we're ridin' out now, b

  'gosh!" Billy said as the train pulled out and they leaned back

  in their seats.

  They had decided against retracing their steps over the ground

  already traveled, and took the train to San Francisco. They had

  been warned by Mark Hall of the enervation of the south, and were

  bound north for their blanket climate. Their intention was to

  cross the Bay to Sausalito and wander up through the coast

  counties Here, Hall had told them, they would find the true home

  of the redwood. But Billy, in the smoking car for a cigarette,

  seated himself beside a man who was destined to deflect them from

  their course. He was a keen-faced, dark-eyed man, undoubtedly a

  Jew; and Billy, remembering Saxon's admonition always to ask

  questions, watched his opportunity and started a conversation. It

  took but a little while to learn that Gunston was a commission

  merchant, and to realize that the content of his talk was too

  valuable for Saxon to lose. Promptly, when he saw that the

  other's cigar was finished, Billy invited him into the next car

  to meet Saxon. Billy would have been incapable of such an act

  prior to his sojourn in Carmel. That much at least he had

  acquired of social facility.

  "He's just teen tellin' me about the potato kings, and I wanted

  him to tell you," Billy explained to Saxon after the

  introduction. "Go on and tell her, Mr. Gunston, about that fan

  tan sucker that made nineteen thousan' last year in celery an'

  asparagus."

  "I was just telling your husband about the way the Chinese make

  things go up the San Joaquin river. It would be worth your while

  to go up there and look around. It's the good season now--too

  early for mosquitoes. You can get off the train at Black Diamond

  or Antioch and travel around among the big farming islands on the

  steamers and launches. The fares are cheap, and you'll find some

  of those big gasoline boats, like the Duchess and Princess, 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 m
erchant 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