If so many of the race of kind advisers of tourists had not warned her

about it, doubtless she would have gone over the pass without

difficulty. But their voluntary croaking sapped her nerve, and her

father's. He kept worrying, "Do you think we better try it?" When they

stopped at a ranch house at the foot of the climb, for the night, he

seemed unusually tired. He complained of chill. He did not eat

breakfast. They started out silent, depressed.

He crouched in the corner of the seat. She looked at him and was

anxious. She stopped on the first level space on the pass, crying, "You

are perfectly miserable. I'm afraid of---- I think we ought to see a

doctor."

"Oh, I'll be all right."

But she waited till Milt came pit-pattering up the slope. "Father feels

rather sick. What shall I do? Turn round and drive to the nearest

doctor--at Cashmere, I suppose?"

"There's a magnolious medico ahead here on the pass," Pinky Parrott

interrupted. "A young thing, but they say he's a graduate of Harvard.

He's out here because he has some timber-claims. Look, Milt o' the

Daggett, why don't you drive Miss Boltwood's 'bus--make better time, and

hustle the old gent up to the doc, and I'll come on behind with your

machine."

"Why," Claire fretted, "I hate----"

A new Milt, the boss, abrupt, almost bullying, snapped out of his bug.

"Good idee. Jump in, Claire. I'll take your father up. Heh, whasat,

Pink? Yes, I get it; second turn beyond grocery. Right. On we go. Huh?

Oh, we'll think about the gold-mine later, Pink."

With the three of them wedged into the seat of the Gomez, and Pinky

recklessly skittering after them in the bug, they climbed again--and lo!

there was no climb! Unconsciously Claire had hesitated before dashing at

each sharp upsloping bend; had lost headway while she was wondering,

"Suppose the car went off this curve?" Milt never sped up, but he never

slackened. His driving was as rhythmical as music.

They were so packed in that he could scarcely reach gear lever and

hand-brake. He halted on a level, and curtly asked, "That trap-door in

the back of the car--convertible extra seat?"

"Yes, but we almost never use it, and it's stuck. Can't get it open."

"I'll open it all right! Got a big screwdriver? Want you sit back there.

Need elbow room."

"Perhaps I'd better drive with Mr. Pinky."

"Nope. Don't think better."

With one yank he opened the trap-door, revealing a folding seat, which

she meekly took. Back there, she reflected, "How strong his back looks.

Funny how the little silvery hairs grow at the back of his neck."

They came to a settlement and the red cedar bungalow of Dr. Hooker

Beach. The moment Claire saw the doctor's thin demanding face, she

trusted him. He spoke to Mr. Boltwood with assurance: "All you need is

some rest, and your digestion is a little shaky. Been eating some pork?

Might stay here a day or two. We're glad to have a glimpse of

Easterners."




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