"No, I wouldn't," said Nick. "I'd have a doze or two and a sandwich or two in between spins. No harder work than a round-up."
"All right, then. In four days like that you'll be a dandy driver, I promise you, Mr. Hilliard," said the man of the garage.
"Fit to drive—ladies?"
"Fit to drive a queen."
"That's what I want to do," mumbled Nick under his breath.
X. WHEN ANGELA WENT SIGHTSEEING
The next five days Angela spent in seeing the country her father had helped to create, and in breaking down in the blue motor-car at brief and inconvenient intervals. At first they were unexpected intervals; but soon they were taken for granted; for the more she knew of Mr. Sealman's invention the less was Angela surprised at anything it chose to do. The Model was a model of all the vices. It smoked like a chimney, drank like a fish, and developed, one after another or all together, every malady to which motor-metal is heir. The stages of the way, even to the Mission of San Gabriel, in its sleepy old Mexican village on the fringe of Los Angeles, were punctuated with disasters. A burst tire was a comma; carburetor trouble a colon; nervous prostration of the sparking-plug a period. But Mr. Sealman never lost confidence. He explained everything, justified himself and the car; told anecdotes of his courage, and let fall pathetic words concerning an invalid mother dependent on him and his success.
"I'm a pioneer, I tell you," he said. "You and I are making history this minute."