Semanticate

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 				<p>Each town consisted of some tens, or hundreds, or thousands of perfectly rectangular blocks, divided into perfectly rectangular lots, each containing a strictly modern bungalow, with a lawn and a housewife holding a hose. On the outskirts would be one or more “subdivisions,” as they were called; “acreage” was being laid out into lots, and decorated with a row of red and yellow flags fluttering merrily in the breeze; also a row of red and yellow signs which asked questions and answered them with swift efficiency: “Gas? Yes.” “Water? Best ever.” “Lights? Right.” “Restrictions? You bet.” “Schools? Under construction.” “Scenery? Beats the Alps.”⁠—and so on. There would be an office or a tent by the roadside, and in front of it an alert young man with a writing pad and a fountain-pen, prepared to write you a contract of sale after two minutes conversation. These subdividers had bought the land for a thousand dollars an acre, and soon as they had set up the fluttering little flags and the tent it became worth $1,675 per lot. This also Dad explained with amused tolerance. It was a great country!</p>
 				<p>They were coming to the outskirts of Angel City. Here were trolley tracks and railroads, and subdivisions with no restrictions⁠—that is, you might build any kind of house you pleased, and rent it to people of any race or color; which meant an ugly slum, spreading like a great sore, with shanties of tin and tar-paper and unpainted boards. There were great numbers of children playing here⁠—for some strange reason there seemed to be more of them where they were least apt to thrive.</p>
 				<p>By dint of constant pushing and passing every other car, Dad had got on his schedule again. They skirted the city, avoiding the traffic crowds in its centre, and presently came a sign: “Beach City Boulevard.” It was a wide asphalt road, with thousands of speeding cars, and more subdivisions and suburban home-sites, with endless ingenious advertisements designed to catch the fancy of the motorist, and cause him to put on brakes. The real estate men had apparently been reading the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Arabian Nights</i> and Grimm’s fairytales; they were housed in little freak offices that shot up to a point, or tilted like a drunken sailor; their colors orange and pink, or blue and green, or with separately painted shingles, spotted with various colors. There were “good eats” signs and “barbecue” signs⁠—the latter being a word which apparently had not been in the spelling-books when the sign-painters went to school. There were stands where you got orange-juice and cider, with orange-colored wicker chairs out in front for you to sit in. There were fruit and vegetable stands kept by Japs, and other stands with signs inviting you to “patronize Americans.” There was simply no end of things to look at, each separate thing bringing its separate thrill to the mind of a thirteen-year old boy. The infinite strangeness and fascinatingness of this variegated world! Why do people do this, Dad? And why do they do that?</p>
-				<p>They came to Beach City, with its wide avenue along the oceanfront. Six-thirty, said the clock on the car’s running-board⁠—exactly on the schedule. They stopped before the big hotel, and Bunny got out of the car, and opened the back compartment, and the bellhop came hopping⁠—you bet, for he knew Dad, and the dollars and half dollars that were jingling in Dad’s pockets. The bellhop grabbed the suitcases and the overcoats, and carried them in, and the boy followed, feeling responsible and important, because Dad couldn’t come yet, Dad had to put the car in a parking place. So Bunny strode in and looked about the lobby for Ben Skutt, the oil-scout, who was Dad’s “lease-hound.” There he was, seated in a big leather chair, puffing at a cigar and watching the door; he got up when he saw Bunny, and stretched his long, lean body, and twisted his lean, ugly face into a grin of welcome. The boy, very erect, remembering that he was <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Arnold Ross, junior, and representing his father in an important transaction, shook hands with the man, remarking: “Good evening, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Skutt. Are the papers ready?”</p>
+				<p>They came to Beach City, with its wide avenue along the oceanfront. Six-thirty, said the clock on the car’s running-board⁠—exactly on the schedule. They stopped before the big hotel, and Bunny got out of the car, and opened the back compartment, and the bellhop came hopping⁠—you bet, for he knew Dad, and the dollars and half dollars that were jingling in Dad’s pockets. The bellhop grabbed the suitcases and the overcoats, and carried them in, and the boy followed, feeling responsible and important, because Dad couldn’t come yet, Dad had to put the car in a parking place. So Bunny strode in and looked about the lobby for Ben Skutt, the oil-scout, who was Dad’s “lease-hound.” There he was, seated in a big leather chair, puffing at a cigar and watching the door; he got up when he saw Bunny, and stretched his long, lean body, and twisted his lean, ugly face into a grin of welcome. The boy, very erect, remembering that he was <abbr epub:type="z3998:given-name">J.</abbr> Arnold Ross, junior, and representing his father in an important transaction, shook hands with the man, remarking: “Good evening, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Skutt. Are the papers ready?”</p>
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