me 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."

Mr. Boltwood went to bed in the Beaches' guest-room. Mrs. Beach gave
Claire and Milt lunch, with thin toast and thin china, on a porch from
which an arroyo dropped down for a hundred feet. Fir trees scented the
air, and a talking machine played the same Russian music that was
popular that same moment in New York. And the Beaches knew people who
knew Claire.

Claire was thinking. These people were genuine aristocrats, while Jeff
Saxton, for all his family and his assumptions about life, was the
eternal climber. Milt, who had been uncomfortable with Jeff, was serene