“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 dogging 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.