the pretensions of a
sculptor friend of his, who wished to be Art Director of the affair. In
the matter of this Fair and Flower Festival, Hartrath was not lacking in
enthusiasm. He addressed the others with extravagant gestures, blinking
his inflamed eyelids.

"A million dollars," he exclaimed. "Hey! think of that. Why, do you know
that we have five hundred thousand practically pledged already? Talk
about public spirit, gentlemen, this is the most public-spirited city
on the continent. And the money is not thrown away. We will have Eastern
visitors here by the thousands--capitalists--men with money to invest.
The million we spend on our fair will be money in our pockets. Ah, you
should see how the women of this city are taking hold of the matter.
They are giving all kinds of little entertainments, teas, 'Olde Tyme
Singing Skules,' amateur theatricals, gingerbread fetes, all for the
benefit of the fund, and the business men, too--pouring out their money
like water. It is splendid, splendid, to see a community so patriotic."

The manufacturer, Cedarquist, fixed the artist with a glance of
melancholy interest.

"And how much," he remarked, "will they contribute--your gingerbread
women and public-spirited capitalists, towards the blowing up of the
ruins of the Atlas Iron Works?"

"Blowing up? I don't understand," murmured the artist, surprised. "When
you get your Eastern capitalists out here with your Million-Dollar
Fair," continued Cedarquist, "you don't propose, do you, to let them see
a Million-Dollar Iron Foundry standing idle, because of the indifference
of San Francisco business men? They might ask pertinent questions,
your capitalists, and we should have to answer that our business men
preferred to invest their money in corner lots and government bonds,
rather than to back up a legitimate, industrial enterprise. We don't
want fairs. We want active furnaces. We don't want public statues, and
fountains, and park extensions and gingerbread fetes. We want business
enterprise. Isn't it like us? Isn't it like us?" he exclaimed sadly.
"What a melancholy comment! San Francisco! It is not a city--it is a
Midway Plaisance. California likes to be fooled. Do you suppose Shelgrim
could convert the whole San Joaquin Valley into his back yard otherwise?
Indifference to public affairs--absolute indifference, it stamps us all.
Our State is the very paradise of fakirs. You and your Million-Dollar
Fair!" He turned to Hartrath with