the sad eyes of the sheriff's
daughter--also an aged party, but with a sunbonnet and the most
expensive rouge--the crook's reformation, and his violent adherence to
law and order; this libel upon the portions of these United States lying
west of longitude 101 deg. Claire had seen too often. She dragged her father
back to the hotel, sent him to bed, and entered her room--to find a
telegram upon the bureau.

She had sent her friends a list of the places at which she would be
likely to stop. The message was from Jeff Saxton, in Brooklyn. It
brought to her mind the steady shine of his glasses--the most expensive
glasses, with the very best curved lenses--as it demanded:

"Received letter about trip surprised anxious will tire you out
fatigue prairie roads bad for your father mountain roads dangerous
strongly advise go only part way then take train. GEOFFREY."

She held the telegram, flipping her fingers against one end of it as she
debated. She remembered how the wide world had flowed toward her over
the hood of the Gomez all day. She wrote in answer:

"Awful perils of road, two punctures, split infinitive, eggs at
lunch questionable, but struggle on."

Before she sent it she held council with her father. She sat on the foot
of his bed and tried to sound dutiful. "I don't want to do anything
that's bad for you, daddy. But isn't it taking your mind away from
business?"

"Ye-es, I think it is. Anyway, we'll try it a few days more."

"I fancy we can stand up under the strain and perils. I think we can
persuade some of these big farmers to come to the rescue if we encounter
any walruses or crocodiles among the wheat. And I have a feeling that if
we ever get stuck, our friend of the Teal bug will help us."

"Probably never see him again. He'll skip on ahead of us."

"Of course. We haven't laid an eye on him, along the road. He must have
gotten into Fargo long before we did. Now tomorrow I think----"

CHAPTER VII

THE GREAT AMERICAN FRYING PAN

It was Claire's first bad day since the hole in the mud. She had started
gallantly, scooting along the level road that flies straight west of
Fargo. But at noon she encountered a restaurant which made eating seem
an evil.

That they might have fair fame among motorists the commercial club of
Reaper had set at the edge of town a sign "Welcome to Reaper, a Live
Town--Speed Limit 8 Miles perhr." Being interpreted, that sign meant
that if you w