"You've got a white elephant on your hands, Kurt. What are
you going to do with me?"

"There's only one thing I can do, now," he said glumly. "Carry out a bad
bargain. I'll see it through."

"Oh, Mr. Britling!" she murmured _sotto voce_.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing. Traveling libraries evidently don't hit this trail. What is it
the trail to, anyway? Your house?"

"To Top Hill Tavern."

"Gee! That sounds good. A tavern! I hope it's tiptop as well as tophill.
How did you come to build a hotel way off here? Summer boarders? Will
there be dances?"

"Top Hill Tavern," he said coldly, "is the name of a ranch--not mine. The
owners live there."

"And does she, 'the best woman in the world,' live there?"

"We must start now," he said, rising abruptly and leading the way to the
car.

"I should think," remarked the girl casually after his fourth ineffectual
effort to start the engine, "that if she owns a ranch, she might buy a
better buzz wagon than this."

He made no reply, but renewed his futile attempts at starting, muttering
words softly the while.

"Don't be sore, Kurt. I can't help it because your old ark won't budge. I
didn't steal anything off it. Wouldn't it be fierce if you were marooned
on the trail with a thief who has a lifelong record!"

He came around the car and stood beside her. His face was flushed. His
eyes, of the deep-set sombre kind that grow larger and come to the surface
only when strongly moved, burned with the light of anger.

"Did anyone ever try whipping you, I wonder?"

"Sure," she said cheerfully. "I was brought up on whippings by
a--stepmother. But do you feel that way toward me? You look like a man who
might strike a woman under certain provocation, perhaps; but not like one
who would hit a little girl like me. If you won't look so cross, I'll tell
you why your 'mobile won't move."

He made no reply, but turned to the brake.

"Say, 'bo," she continued tantalizingly, "whilst you are a lookin', just
cast your lamps into the gasoline tank. That man who filled it didn't put
a widow's mite in."

Unbelievingly he followed this lead.

"Not a drop, damn it!"

"The last straw with you, isn't it? I'm not to blame, though. If you think
I stole your gasoline, just search me. How far are we from your tiptop
tavern?"

"Twenty miles. I suppose you couldn't walk it," he said doubtfully.

"Me? In these?" she exclaimed, thrusting forth a foot illy and most
inadequately shod. "But you