"I wonder what she's up to now?" he remarked. "Fifteen years I drove horses, which are supposed to have brains, but this machine can think of things to do to me that the meanest horse never could."
"You promised, driver," pleaded the girl. "We must reach San Marco on time. Mr.—er—your watch?"
"Twenty-five past twelve," smiled Minot.
The native descended to the dust and slid under the car. In a moment he emerged, triumphant.
"All O.K." he announced. "Don't you worry, lady. It's San Marco or bust."
"If only something doesn't bust," Minot said.
Again they were plowing through the sand. The girl sat anxiously on the edge of the seat, her cheeks flaming, her eyes alight. Minot watched her. And suddenly all the happy, sad little memories melted into a golden glow—the glow of being alive—on this lonesome road—with her! Then suddenly he knew! This was the one girl, the girl of all the world, the girl he should love while the memory of her lasted, which would be until the eyes that looked upon her now were dust. A great exultation swept through him—
"What did you mean," he asked, "when you said you were always doing things like this?"
"I meant," she answered, "that I'm a silly little fool. Oh, if you could know me well—" and her eyes seemed to question the future—"you'd see for yourself. Never looking ahead to calculate the consequences. It's the old story of fools rushing in—"
"You mean of angels rushing in, don't you? I never was good at old saws, but—"