, and having aroused
the meeting to a high pitch of enthusiasm ended with a peroration that
brought forth a loud demonstration of approbation.

"Gentlemen," declared Mr. Butefish, "back there in the mountains is a
noble stream waitin' to irrigate a thirsty land. For the trifling sum of
twenty thousand dollars we can turn this hull country into a garden
spot! The time is comin' when we'll see nothin' but alfalfa field in
purple bloom as fur as the eye can reach! We're as rich in natural
resources as any section on God's green earth. We're lousy with 'em,
gentlemen, and all we gotta do is to put our shoulders to the wheel and
scratch!"

Mr. Butefish sat down and dried the inside of his collar with his
handkerchief midst tumultuous applause.

The evening had been a veritable love-feast without a jarring note and
everybody glowed with a feeling of neighborliness and confidence in a
future that was to bring them affluence.

"Mr. Chairman, may I have a word?"

There was a general turning of heads as Mormon Joe, thick of tongue,
lurched over the back of the seat in front.

"Kindly make it brief," replied Mr. Butefish reluctantly. "We still have
important business to transact."

"I only want to say that this country hasn't any more natural resources
than a tin roof and when Prouty got any bigger than a saloon and a
blacksmith shop it overreached itself." There was a tightening of lips
as the members exchanged looks, but Mormon Joe went on, "One third of
the work that you dry farmers put in trying to make ranches out of arid
land," he addressed a row of tousled gentlemen on the front seat, "would
bring you independence in a state where climatic conditions are
favorable to raising crops.

"As for your ditch, there never was an irrigation project yet that did
not cost double and treble the original estimate. If you try to put it
through without outside help, you'll all go broke. In other words," he
jeered, "you haven't one damned asset but your climate, and you're
wasting your time and energy until you figure out a way to realize on
that."

Shabby, undersized, distinctly drunk, Mormon Joe made an unheroic figure
as he stood swaying on his feet looking mockingly into the frowning
faces of the Boosters Club, and yet, somehow, his words cast a momentary
depression over the room.

He stood an instant, then staggered out, indifferent to the fact that he
had committed the supreme offense in a western town--he had
"knocked"