They came to another fence; above it were painted signs and flags fluttering yellow in the moonlight.
“Don’t tell me that’s a subdivision,” Eden said.
Holley laughed. “Date City,” he announced. “Here in California the subdivider, like the poor, is always with us. Date City where, if you believe all you’re told, every dime is a baby dollar. No one lives there yet—but who knows? We’re a growing community—see my editorial in last week’s issue.”
The car plowed on. It staggered a bit now, but Holley’s hands were firm on the wheel. Here and there a Joshua tree stretched out hungry black arms as though to seize these travelers by night, and over that gray waste a dismal wind moaned constantly, chill and keen and biting. Bob Eden turned up the collar of his top coat.
“I can’t help thinking of that old song,” he said. “You know—about the lad who guaranteed to love somebody’until the sands of the desert grow cold.’”
“It wasn’t much of a promise,” agreed Holley. “Either he was a great kidder, or he’d never been on the desert at night. But look here—is this your first experience with this country? What kind of a Californian are you?”
“Golden Gate brand,” smiled Eden. “Yes, it’s true, I’ve never been down here before. Something tells me I’ve missed a lot.”
“You sure have. I hope you won’t rush off in a hurry. By the way, how long do you expect to be here?”
“I don’t know,” replied Eden. He was silent for a moment; his friend at home had told him that Holley could be trusted, but he really did not need that assurance. One look into the editor’s friendly gray eyes was sufficient. “
