The Port of Adventure Part 14

"Oh, _that_ car!" remarked the inventor with indifference. "That's what we call Smith's Folly. Thad Smith, a fellow who made a pile of money, had the thing built to order, and it brought him bad luck--lost every cent the day she was finished, and he's been trying to sell her ever since. _I_ wouldn't take her for a present."

Angela leaned back, hiding a smile behind her motor veil. She did not believe that Mr. Sealman would have the offer. His little car looked a badly made toy compared with that golden chariot. She wondered if it had been sold, or if it would be worth while to make inquiries. Somebody was perhaps trying it, she thought, for often it followed the road taken by Sealman; or, when their car broke down, as it usually did, the yellow giant shot ahead, disappeared and occasionally appeared again.

"I should like to find out if it's still for sale," she said to herself, gazing back admiringly. "Why shouldn't I have a motor of my own?"

As the Model trundled her out of sight, a man walked round the corner, and, springing into the yellow car, took the driver's seat.

XI

THE MAN AT THE WHEEL

Nick had not been visiting the Mission that day. But he had been there before, gabbling fluent Spanish with the verger. This was more than Angela could do, though she knew the cathedrals of Spain! In the morning Nick had made an early start with his new car, and, after four long days of constant practice, at last he experienced the joy of confidence in himself, at the wheel. He was now licensed to drive, and the yellow automobile was his, body and soul.

The chauffeur, a reedy and extremely young youth, with a sharp nose and a keen sense of humour, had sc.r.a.ped acquaintance with Sealman. Without giving away any information on his side, he had always contrived to find out, if not where the Model was going, at least where it was hoped she might go. It was to be Riverside to-day; and after a preliminary spin from six to eight, Nick had been lingering near the Mission, paying a friendly visit to the owner of the Big Grapevine and the Trained Owls. This man was the most taciturn of mortals. But something behind the locked windows of his soul recognized a congenial spirit in the open windows of Nick Hilliard's, and the two had made friends years ago. The morning's call was a renewal of old acquaintance; and the sea-green light under the Grapevine was as clear as on another May day, when Nick was six years younger. The alligators were larger; but the white-faced owls were unchanged--unless perhaps a little wiser, a little more instructed in the oldest secrets of an old, secretive world.

"See the way that white-veiled witch stares at me with her golden eyes?"

said Nick. "Wish I could flatter myself she remembers me."

"Of course she remembers," said her master, "She's the same one told your fortune when you were here before."

"I asked her if I was going to amount to anything in the world, and she nodded her head three times. I felt like sending her a present when Gaylor made me foreman, and again when I got my ranch. She ought to have had a diamond crown when the gusher came. But, like an ungrateful beast, I forgot all about her."

"She knows her business," said the Grapevine man. "Three nods mean three big strokes of luck."

"Good king!" exclaimed Nick. "I hope that doesn't mean I'm not going to have any more than three?"

"Anything you want in particular?"

"Well, yes, there _is_ something I'm sort of set on."

"Ask her if you get your wish."

Nick fixed his eyes upon the owl.

"Do I get my wish?"

She sat motionless on her perch for a moment, consulting her oracle. Then she suddenly lifted her wings and flapped violently.

"Is that the best answer you can give?" Nick reproached her.

The owl repeated the gesture.

"I guess you want something she doesn't approve of," said the Grapevine man.

"She might give me a civil 'yes' or 'no.' See here, you Witch of Endor--_do_ I get my wish?"

The owl closed her eyes, then opened them with a sudden flash of gold, but would neither nod nor shake her head.

"She knows, but she won't tell," said her master. "Maybe she doesn't want to upset your feelings."

"She can't scare me with her mysteries," Nick laughed. "I'm going right ahead on the same lines." Then he said good-bye to his friend and went out to his motor. But there was enough of the boy in him to be disappointed because the white witch had refused an answer.

The car had a proud way of dismissing the landscape impatiently, if given her head; but as her new owner was not out to show what he could do, she was compelled to crawl when she would have flown, like Pegasus harnessed to the plough.

To-day, the task of subduing herself was not so painful as usual, for the blue car went on mile after mile, through the far-stretching orange groves, without a stop; and Nick enjoyed driving.

"Wish I could remember," he thought, "how I felt when I was a kid, and walked alone across a room the first time without tumbling on my nose. I wonder if it was as good as this?"

"This" was very good indeed, and would have been good anywhere--for Nick was, according to his own way of putting it, a "crank" about doing well whatever he undertook, and he knew now that he had conquered the machine--but on such a road, and in the light and shade of orange groves, it was superlative.

The vast plain, walled with mountains, was an endless city of domed green temples, richly decorated with the gold of the late orange crop. Beyond its boundary were vines, cut close in Spanish fas.h.i.+on, which perhaps the Fathers had taught in Mission days; and there were tall, pink-trunked eucalyptus trees from whose wood beautiful furniture could be made; then cities of green and golden temples again, in a desert-frame of tawny yellow. Everything that was not green was golden. The sun poured gold; oranges blazed in golden splendour; and California poppies, golden with orange hearts, swept in a yellow flame over the landscape.

"Gold under the earth, and gold over the earth," thought Nick. "That's California!" And he thought, too, of the gold of Angela's hair. "She'd look mighty well in this yellow car, floating along among the white and gold of oranges and orange-blossoms, all white and gold herself," he said.

"And she's _going_ to look well in it. That's what I got it for. That's what I've been working for till this auto's fit to eat out of my hand. And gee! but I've been going some!"

He grinned under his motor mask as he recalled the strenuous hours. He had enjoyed them, but he had hated the mask; and so soon as the time came--he thought it must come soon--when he could reap the reward of labour he meant to shed the abomination. It had served its purpose by letting him come by accident once or twice within full sight of the Model, safe from recognition. He had not wanted Mrs. May to find out prematurely that he was d.o.g.g.i.ng her tire tracks in a car which might have shot past her like a comet. She had misunderstood him too often already, and he wished her to think him safe at Lucky Star Ranch; until the moment when she would rejoice to see him at any price.

More than once during the last four days of practice and probation Nick had been tempted to offer his services. But common-sense had held him back when the blue car was in trouble. It had warned him that a little bitter experience might incline the lady to be lenient. Several minor breakdowns, disappointments, and vexations were needed before she would see matters eye to eye with him. And Nick thought himself lucky that, so far, the Model had not been permanently disabled. Now, if anything happened, he was ready.

Sealman had the air of slowing down, after an unusually long nonstop run, to show off his acquaintance with the country. "That great sandy stretch is the bed of the Santa Ana," said he. "Why, there's so much sand and so little water mostly, they have to sprinkle the bed to keep it from flyin'

about the landscape, as if 'twas a pile o' feathers. It ain't like the Oro, where first they found gold, and then, when they thought they'd got the lot, come across more in the cobbles. Not only that, but by some scientific process or other--you wouldn't understand if I told you--they washed the river-bed, so the sand and stones riz. 'Stirrin' up the alluvial deposits' was what they called it; till they could get hold of the cobbles again, to crush 'em for road-makin'. Roads was needed bad them days! And at last they hauled out the mud from the bottom to plaster over the desert that was here, so oranges and olives and grapes could take to growin'. Sort of wonderful, wasn't it?"

Angela could have told him a great deal more than he had told her, about these "scientific processes," for her father had been one of the men most interested in their success. But she kept her knowledge to herself.

"Yes, it's wonderful," she replied. "But--don't you think we'd better be going on? We've a long way before us, according to the map."

"Yes, we'll go right on," said Sealman. "I just thought I'd stop her and point out the Santa Ana, for fear you'd miss it." He was anxious to conceal the fact that it was the Model who had "just thought," but, urging her to begin again where she had left off, the little brute refused to budge.

"Is anything wrong?" asked Angela, when Sealman had worked in worried silence for several minutes.

"Can't see nothing," said he, increasing in codfis.h.i.+ness. "She'll be all right in a minute. Give her time to breathe!"

Angela gave her time to breathe, but the minute pa.s.sed, and other minutes limped after. Sealman sweated and grunted under the open lid of the bright bonnet. Angela was sorry for him. But she was more sorry for herself, as she counted the nearest rows of orange-trees for the twenty-fifth time, following them with her eyes, as they ran up the ankles and legs of the little yellow mountains. It was luncheon-time, and she was hungry. She had been reading about the Mission Inn at Riverside, and picturing herself there, in a cool, large dining-room.

"How far are we from a railway station?" she asked desperately, when her watch said that they had sat by the Santa Ana's bedside for thirty-five minutes.

"Can't tell you that, ma'am," snapped Sealman. "But it's too far to walk, unless you've got seven-league boots."

"What's the matter? Haven't you found out _yet?_"

"Thought it might be the pump. But it doesn't seem to be. I give it up!"

And he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief that left green streaks of oil.