"Huh! Aviation! What machine d'you fly?"
"Why, why--a biplane!"
"Huh! What kind of motor?"
"Why, a foreign one. The--the---- It was a French motor."
"Huh! What track you race on?"
"The---- Pardon me till I build a fire for our al fresco collation,
and I my driving history will unfold."
But he didn't do either.
After he had brought seven twigs, one piece of sagebrush, and a six-inch
board, Pinky let Milt finish building the fire, while he told how much
he knew about the mysteries of ancient Egyptian priests.
Milt gave up hope that Pinky would become bored by waiting and tramp on.
After one hour of conversational deluge, he decided to let Pinky
drive--to make him admit that he couldn't. He was wrong. Pinky could
drive. He could not drive well, he wabbled in his steering, and he
killed the engine on a grade, but he showed something of the same
dashing idiocy that characterized his talk. It was Milt not Pinky, who
was afraid of their running off the road, and suggested resuming the
wheel.
Seven times that day Milt tried to lose him. Once he stopped without
excuse, and merely stared up at rocks overhanging the hollowed road.
Pinky was not embarrassed. He leaned back in the seat and sang two
Spanish love songs. Once Milt deliberately took a wrong road, up a
mountainside. They were lost, and took five hours getting back to the
highway. Pinky loved the thrill and--in a brief address lasting fifteen
minutes--he said so.
Milt tried to bore him by driving at seven miles an hour. Pinky
affectionately accepted this opportunity to study the strata of the
hills. When they camped, that night, Pinky loved him like a brother, and
was considering not stopping at Blewett Pass, to see his gold-mine and
Dolores the lady-wife, but going clear on to Seattle with his playmate.
The drafted host lay awake, and when Pinky awoke and delivered a few
well-chosen words on the subject of bird-song at dawn, Milt burst out: "Pinky, I don't like to do it, but---- I've never refused a fellow a
lift, but I'm afraid you'll have to hike on by yourself, the rest of the
way."
Pinky sat up in his blankets. "Afraid of me, eh? You better be! I'm a
bad actor. I killed Dolores's husband, and took her along, see? I----"
"Are you trying to scare me, you poor four-flusher?" Milt's right hand
expanded, fingers arching, with the joyous tension of a man stretching.
"No. I'm just reading your thoughts. I'm telling you you're scared of
me! You think that if I went on, I might steal your car! You're afraid
because I'm so suave. You aren't used to smooth ducks. You don't dare to
let me stick with you, even for today! You're afraid I'd have your
mis'able car by tonight! You don't dare!"