Thus on April first, among dappled hills and the bronze of scrub oaks, while Kennicott seesawed on his toes and chuckled, “Wonder what Hugh’ll say when he sees us?”

Three days later they reached Gopher Prairie in a sleet storm.

II

No one knew that they were coming; no one met them; and because of the icy roads, the only conveyance at the station was the hotel ’bus, which they missed while Kennicott was giving his trunk-check to the station agent—­the only person to welcome them.  Carol waited for him in the station, among huddled German women with shawls and umbrellas, and ragged-bearded farmers in corduroy coats; peasants mute as oxen, in a room thick with the steam of wet coats, the reek of the red-hot stove, the stench of sawdust boxes which served as cuspidors.  The afternoon light was as reluctant as a winter dawn.

“This is a useful market-center, an interesting pioneer post, but it is not a home for me,” meditated the stranger Carol.

Kennicott suggested, “I’d ’phone for a flivver but it’d take quite a while for it to get here.  Let’s walk.”

They stepped uncomfortably from the safety of the plank platform and, balancing on their toes, taking cautious strides, ventured along the road.  The sleety rain was turning to snow.  The air was stealthily cold.  Beneath an inch of water was a layer of ice, so that as they wavered with their suit-cases they slid and almost fell.  The wet snow drenched their gloves; the water underfoot splashed their itching ankles.  They scuffled inch by inch for three blocks.  In front of Harry Haydock’s Kennicott sighed: 

“We better stop in here and ’phone for a machine.”

She followed him like a wet kitten.

The Haydocks saw them laboring up the slippery concrete walk, up the perilous front steps, and came to the door chanting: 

“Well, well, well, back again, eh?  Say, this is fine!  Have a fine trip?  My, you look like a rose, Carol.  How did you like the coast, doc?  Well, well, well!  Where-all did you go?”

But as Kennicott began to proclaim the list of places achieved, Harry interrupted with an account of how much he himself had seen, two years ago.  When Kennicott boasted, “We went through the mission at Santa Barbara,” Harry broke in, “Yeh, that’s an interesting old mission.  Say, I’ll never forget that hotel there, doc.  It was swell.  Why, the rooms were made just like these old monasteries.  Juanita and I went from Santa Barbara to San Luis Obispo.  You folks go to San Luis Obispo?”

“No, but——­”

“Well you ought to gone to San Luis Obispo.  And then we went from there to a ranch, least they called it a ranch——­”

Kennicott got in only one considerable narrative, which began: