"How far are we from a railway station?" she asked desperately, when her watch said that they had sat by the Santa Ana's bedside for thirty-five minutes.
"Can't tell you that, ma'am," snapped Sealman. "But it's too far to walk, unless you've got seven-league boots."
"What's the matter? Haven't you found out yet?"
"Thought it might be the pump. But it doesn't seem to be. I give it up!" And he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief that left green streaks of oil.
"But you mustn't give it up. We can't stop here all day."
Sealman grinned viciously. Perhaps he, too, hungered. Certainly he was hot, and felt like a Socialist. What was this young woman that she should sit there comfortably and nag him while he was down in the dust? "I don't see any reason against our stayin' all day," said he. "And I guess the machine don't."
"Hateful little beast!" exclaimed Angela.
"Who, me or the Model?" Sealman wanted to know.
"I meant the—alleged—Model. She's a fraud—a horror. If only I get—somewhere—I don't care where—I'll never come out with you again, never, never!"
"You're engaged to me till the end of the month," said Sealman as firmly as if he alluded to a promise of marriage. "I've refused two other gentlemen. If you don't use the machine, you'll pay, anyhow."