I can initiate you into the Very Ancient Order of Lovers of the Desert. The requirements for membership are very strict. A sensitive soul, a quick eye for beauty—oh, a very select group, you may be sure. No riff-raff on our rolls.”
A blatant sign hung before them. “Stop! Have you bought your lot in Date City?” From the steps of a tiny real estate office a rather shabby young man leaped to life. He came into the road and held up his hand. Obligingly the girl stopped her car.
“Howdy, folks,” said the young man. “Here’s the big opportunity of your life—don’t pass it by. Let me show you a lot in Date City, the future metropolis of the desert.”
Bob Eden stared at the dreary landscape. “Not interested,” he said.
“Yeah. Think of the poor devils who once said that about the corner of Spring and Sixth, Los Angeles. Not interested—and they could have bought it for a song. Look ahead. Can you picture this street ten years hence?”
“I think I can,” Eden replied. “It looks just the way it does today.”
“Blind!” rebuked the young man. “Blind! This won’t be the desert forever. Look!” He pointed to a small lead pipe surrounded by a circle of rocks and trying to act like a fountain. From its top gurgled an anemic stream. “What’s that! Water, my boy, water, the pure, life-giving elixir, gushing madly from the sandy soil. What does that mean? I see a great city rising on this spot, skyscrapers and movie palaces, land five thousand a front foot—land you can buy today for a paltry two dollars.”
