The Fever Manifests Itself

Bud Moore, ex-cow-puncher and now owner of an auto stage that did not
run in the winter, was touched with cabin fever and did not know what
ailed him. His stage line ran from San Jose up through Los Gatos and
over the Bear Creek road across the summit of the Santa Cruz Mountains
and down to the State Park, which is locally called Big Basin. For
something over fifty miles of wonderful scenic travel he charged six
dollars, and usually his big car was loaded to the running boards. Bud
was a good driver, and he had a friendly pair of eyes--dark blue and
with a humorous little twinkle deep down in them somewhere--and a human
little smiley quirk at the corners of his lips. He did not know it, but
these things helped to fill his car.

Until gasoline married into the skylark family, Bud did well enough to
keep him contented out of a stock saddle. (You may not know it, but
it is harder for an old cow-puncher to find content, now that the free
range is gone into history, than it is for a labor agitator to be happy
in a municipal boarding house.) Bud did well enough, which was very well indeed. Before the second
season closed with the first fall rains, he had paid for his big car
and got the insurance policy transferred to his name. He walked up
First Street with his hat pushed back and a cigarette dangling from the
quirkiest corner of his mouth, and his hands in his pockets. The glow of
prosperity warmed his manner toward the world. He had a little money in
the bank, he had his big car, he had the good will of a smiling world.
He could not walk half a block in any one of three or four towns but he
was hailed with a "Hello, Bud!" in a welcoming tone. More people knew
him than Bud remembered well enough to call by name--which is the final
proof of popularity the world over.