darkened, moist stretch of road, fringed by pines, then a
jogging journey over rolling table-land. At last came a voice from the
driver's seat, and Fairchild turned like a man suddenly awakened.

"Turn off up here at Genesee Mountain. Which way do you go?"

"Trying to get to Ohadi." Fairchild shouted it above the roar of the
engine. The driver waved a hand forward.

"Keep to the main road. Drop off when I make the turn. You 'll pick
up another ride soon. Plenty of chances."

"Thanks for the lift."

"Aw, forget it."

The truck wheeled from the main road and chugged away, leaving
Fairchild afoot, making as much progress as possible toward his goal
until good fortune should bring a swifter means of locomotion. A
half-mile he walked, studying the constant changes of the scenery
before him, the slopes and rises, the smooth valleys and jagged crags
above, the clouds as they drifted low upon the higher peaks, shielding
them from view for a moment, then disappearing. Then suddenly he
wheeled. Behind him sounded the swift droning of a motor, cut-out
open, as it rushed forward along the road,--and the noise told a story
of speed.

Far at the brow of a steep hill it appeared, seeming to hang in space
for an instant before leaping downward. Rushing, plunging, once
skidding dangerously at a small curve, it made the descent, bumped over
a bridge, was lost for a second in the pines, then sped toward him, a
big touring car, with a small, resolute figure clinging to the wheel.
The quarter of a mile changed to a furlong, the furlong to a hundred
yards,--then, with a report like a revolver shot, the machine suddenly
slewed in drunken fashion far to one side of the road, hung dangerously
over the steep cliff an instant, righted itself, swayed forward and
stopped, barely twenty-five yards away. Staring, Robert Fairchild saw
that a small, trim figure had leaped forth and was waving excitedly to
him, and he ran forward.

His first glance had proclaimed it a boy; the second had told a
different story. A girl--dressed in far different fashion from Robert
Fairchild's limited specifications of feminine garb--she caused him to
gasp in surprise, then to stop and stare. Again she waved a hand and
stamped a foot excitedly; a vehement little thing in a snug, whipcord
riding habit and a checkered cap pulled tight over closely braided
hair, she awaited him with all the impatience of impetuous womanhood.

"For goodness' sake, com