ree dressmakers ruining their eyes with nightwork, Jack,
making up some nifty sports clothes. If Casey's bound to stay in the
desert--well, I'm his wife--and Casey does kind of like to have me
around. You can't tell ME.

"So I've got the twin-six packed with the niftiest camp outfit you ever
saw, Jack. I've got a yellow and red beach umbrella, and two reclining
chairs, and--well-sir, I'm going to rough it de luxe. I don't expect
to keep Casey in hand--I happen to know him. But it's just possible,
Jack, that I can keep him in sight!"

Of course I told her--as I've told her often enough before--that she
was a brick. I added that I would go along, if she liked; which she
did. Not even the Little Woman should ever attempt to drive across the
Mojave alone.

We started out as soon as we had finished the meal. A Cadillac
roadster came up behind us and honked for clear passing as we swung
into the long, straight stretch that leads up the Cajon. The Little
Woman peered into the rear vision mirror and pressed the toe of her
white pump upon the accelerator.

"There's only one man in the world that can pass ME on the road," the
Little Woman drawled, "and he doesn't wear a panama!"

As we snapped around the turns of Cajon Grade, I looked back once or
twice. The Cadillac roadster was still following pertinaciously, but
it was too far back to honk at us. When we slid down to the
Victorville garage and stopped for gas, the Cadillac slid by. The
driver in the panama gave us one glance through his colored glasses,
but I felt, somehow, that the glance was sufficiently comprehensive to
fix us firmly in his memory. I inquired at the garage concerning Casey
Ryan, taking it for granted he would be driving a Ford. A man of that
description had stopped at the garage for gas that forenoon, the boy
told me. About nine o'clock, I learned from further questioning.

"Well-sir, that gives him five hours the start," the Little Woman
remarked, as she eased in the clutch and slid around the corner into
the highway to Barstow. "But you can't tell me I can't run down a Ford
with this car. I know to the last inch what a Jawn Henry is good for.
I drove one myself, remember. Now we'll see."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

At Dagget, the big, blue car with a lady driver sounded the warning
signal and passed Mack Nolan and the Cadillac roadster. Like Casey
Ryan, Nolan is rather proud of his driving, and with sufficient reason.
He was already