, we MUST HAVE NEW MARKETS, GREATER MARKETS. For years
we have been sending our wheat from East to West, from California to
Europe. But the time will come when we must send it from West to East.
We must march with the course of empire, not against it. I mean, we
must look to China. Rice in China is losing its nutritive quality. The
Asiatics, though, must be fed; if not on rice, then on wheat. Why, Mr.
Derrick, if only one-half the population of China ate a half ounce of
flour per man per day all the wheat areas in California could not feed
them. Ah, if I could only hammer that into the brains of every rancher
of the San Joaquin, yes, and of every owner of every bonanza farm in
Dakota and Minnesota. Send your wheat to China; handle it yourselves;
do away with the middleman; break up the Chicago wheat pits and elevator
rings and mixing houses. When in feeding China you have decreased the
European shipments, the effect is instantaneous. Prices go up in Europe
without having the least effect upon the prices in China. We hold the
key, we have the wheat,--infinitely more than we ourselves can eat.
Asia and Europe must look to America to be fed. What fatuous neglect of
opportunity to continue to deluge Europe with our surplus food when the
East trembles upon the verge of starvation!"

The two men, Cedarquist and Magnus, continued the conversation a little
further. The manufacturer's idea was new to the Governor. He was greatly
interested. He withdrew from the conversation. Thoughtful, he leaned
back in his place, stroking the bridge of his beak-like nose with a
crooked forefinger.

Cedarquist turned to Harran and began asking details as to the
conditions of the wheat growers of the San Joaquin. Lyman still
maintained an attitude of polite aloofness, yawning occasionally behind
three fingers, and Presley was left to the company of his own thoughts.

There had been a day when the affairs and grievances of the farmers of
his acquaintance--Magnus, Annixter, Osterman, and old Broderson--had
filled him only with disgust. His mind full of a great, vague epic poem
of the West, he had kept himself apart, disdainful of what he chose to
consider their petty squabbles. But the scene in Annixter's harness room
had thrilled and uplifted him. He was palpitating with excitement all
through the succeeding months. He abandoned the idea of an epic poem. In
six months he had not written a single verse. Day after day he trembled
with excitement