"Was there something you wanted to say to me, Charley?"
"Oh, no; I just dropped by to see your logs. I'd been over sooner only I ain't got my tires yet," pointing at the rope-bound rims.
John walked away smiling. Charley was so meek and casual after his preemptory threat.
It was mid-afternoon when Helen, driving her Ford home from Pancake, saw a pea-green roadster attempt to swing into the road from one of the lesser trails which came in from the north. The car was driven by a girl and both car and driver were out of place there. The motor bellowed, the sand flew from the rear wheels, spinning tires ate through the sod hub-deep into the earth and stopped. Helen swung her car out of the road, ran around a stump, over a half-rotted log and stopped in the road again beyond the big car.
Marcia Murray was out, looking petulantly at the plight of her car when Helen came up.
"They call these roads!" she exclaimed. "All day long I've been wandering over these plains and trying to get right directions. How you people manage to get about is more than I understand."
Helen stooped to see better the position of the rear wheels.
"We drive light cars," she said simply. "And we get used to these roads." She looked at Marcia, immaculate, blonde, flushed, with fury in her eyes. "Where were you going?"
"To Pancake. How far is it from here?"
"About eleven miles."
"Are you sure?"
"No."
