Not even the Little Doctor knew the truth, when Andy appeared next morning dressed for his journey, ate a hasty and unsatisfactory breakfast and took the Old Man to one side with elaborate carelessness and asked for a sum that made the Old Man blink.  But no man might have charge of the Happy Family for long without attaining that state of mental insulation which renders a shock scientifically impossible.  The Old Man wrote a check, twisted his mouth into a whimsical knot and inquired mildly:  “What’s the brand of devilment this time, and how long’s it going to take yuh?” With a perceptible emphasis on the word this.

For probably the first time in his life Andy blushed and stammered over a lie, and before he had got out more than two words, the Old Man seemed to understand the situation quite thoroughly.  He said “Oh, I see.  Well, git a round-trip ticket and be dead sure yuh don’t out-stay the limit.”  He took out his pipe and filled it meditatively.

Andy blushed again—­six weeks indoors had lightened the tan on his face so that his blushes showed very plainly—­and made desperate denial.  “I’m only going up to Butte.  But a fellow can’t have any kind of a time there without a fair-sized roll, and—­I’ll be back in two or three weeks—­soon as my leg’s mended thorough.  I—­”

“Get along with yuh!” growled the Old Man, though his eyes twinkled.  “Doggone it, don’t yuh lie to me.  Think I was shipped in on the last train?  A man don’t git red in the face when he’s just merely headed for Butte.  Why, doggone yuh—­”

The last words had to serve for a farewell, because Andy was limping away as fast as he could, and did not come back to the house again.  He did not even tell the Little Doctor good-by, though it was fifteen minutes before John Wedum, the ranchhand, had the team ready to drive Andy to town, and he was one of the Little Doctor’s most loyal subjects.

* * * * *

Andy walked haltingly down a palm-shaded street in San Jose and wondered just what would be the best and quickest way in which to find Mary Edith Johnson.  Three ways were open to him:  He could hunt up all the Johnsons in town—­there were three full pages of them in the directory, as he remembered with a sigh—­and find out which one was the right one; but San Jose, as he had already discovered, was not a village, and he doubted if he could stand the walking.  He could visit all the real estate offices in town—­and he was just beginning to realize that there were almost as many real estate offices as there were Johnsons.  And he could promenade the streets in the hope of meeting her.  But always there was the important fact to face—­the fact that San Jose is not a village.