e shirt to his back. I tried him with
covetousness. I've tried him with distress. Now I'll tempt him with a
business opportunity--one that he'll have to have cash for. Keep your
eye on your uncle. He'll see you through."

The next day being Sunday, Mitchell took the cowboy to the Speedway,
and back through Central Park, in an auto, frankly hired.

"I can hardly afford to set up one," he confided. "And anyway, I
haven't much leisure. Of course, when a good fellow like you comes
along I can take a day off, once in a way. But generally my nose is
down to the grindstone."

On their way home he pointed out a fine building, ornamented with
a "To Let" sign in the window. "There's a place I used to own,
Thompson," he said. "Belongs to a friend of mine, young Post. One
of the best families--but, poor fellow, he's in trouble now." He
dismissed the subject with a benevolent sigh. "Would you like to go in
and look at it? The caretaker will show it to you. He'll think you're
a prospective buyer. You needn't tell him so, but then again you
needn't tell him any different. There's no harm and it's well worth
seeing."

Thompson, nothing loth, agreed. It was a fine house, as Mitchell had
guessed.

"Gracious!" said Steve, when the inspection was over. "What's such a
house worth?"

"I sold it for forty thousand. It's worth more now."

Steve gazed at him wide-eyed. "My! I shouldn't have thought it worth
that much." (It was, in fact, worth a great deal more.)

"It's the ground that makes it cost so," explained Mitchell. "That's
why the value has increased. The house itself is not worth as much
as when I had it, but land values are coming up by leaps and bounds.
Young man, the ground valuation alone of the six square miles
adjoining Central Park is more than the value of all real estate
in the great commonwealth of Missouri. And it is going higher every
year."

"I don't understand it," said Steve, much impressed.

"Do you understand the philosophy of an artesian well? Yes? Then you
understand this. Every farm cleared, every acre planted, every
mine developed, every baby born, enhances the value of _all_ city
property--and New York's got the biggest standpipe. The back country
soaks up the rain and it is delivered conveniently at our doors
through, underground channels, between the unleaking walls that
confine its flow; our price on the surplus you have to sell and _our_
price on the necessities you buy. Every city taps this flow