“A Russian wolfhound, and a beauty too,” Arden replied, pursing her lips into a crooning little whistle and trying to soothe the animal with friendly assurance.
“Look at all the stuff in the back there,” Terry called, where, from a safe distance, she was gazing in at the rear window. “Looks like a lot of pictures.”
“I guess that’s what they are. Well,” Arden suggested, “shall we go on? We’ll probably overtake the owner.”
“Might as well,” agreed Sim, and Terry nodded as she got back into Arden’s car.
The dog stopped its barking, and as they drove off they could see it curled up again on the front seat to finish its interrupted nap; a nose of silky white and taffy-colored tan. It certainly was a beauty.
Again the road lay straight before them, without even a tree on either side to break the monotony. On the right, some distance away, they knew, the blue inviting ocean lay shining in the sunlight, and on the left miles of pine woods with a carpet of brown needles.
They had not much farther to go, Terry told them, pointing out a wary-looking wooden hand which indicated “Oceanedge, 5 mi.”
“Whoever do you suppose might own the old car?” Arden asked curiously as they sped along.
“I don’t care whose dog it is, or car, or what’s in the back or anything about it,” Sim said firmly. “I’m going to enjoy this summer, and I refuse to become interested in another mystery. That car looked to me just like one all ready to sprout.”
“That’s just talk, Sim,” Terry remarked. “If we meet a handsome stranger, trudging slowly toward the village, would you say—pass him by?” challenged Terry.