Oddly enough, it was Harvey who was tainted by his discontent. As they straggled into the street afterwards he said:
“It’s always the same thing. Let’s get out of the old town. Let’s....” he paused.
“Let’s go for a ride,” Gin said. “There’s nothing else.”
Certainly there was some surcease in going fast and having nothing to do. Blake sat on the back of the seat, perched on the rolled-up top; the wind was strong with a little bite to it, and he closed his ears and tried to listen without seeing. It was almost perfect. The little lurch his body gave for no apparent reason—that would be a curve in the road. The roaring in his ears that came and went and came again—that must be a canyon. The louder the hum of the car, and a slowing-down of wind that was a hill, and there was a scent the wind that could not be anything but pines growing on the mountain side. Now they turned off on a rough road; he swayed and would have fallen if he had not opened his eyes.
Madden saved him by grabbing his arm; they called to Harvey to go easy.
“We’re trying to find our way,” Gin shouted over her shoulder. “We’re lost.”
“I know that already. Say, for Christ’s sake....” Madden stopped and seized the side of the car as a bump almost threw him out. Blake slid down to the floor with a jerk, and the engine stopped of its own fatigue.
“Something’s wrong,” said Harvey. “Something certainly is wrong.” He got out and stooped down in front. “High centre. We’ll have to dig out. I’m glad I brought the shovel. Where are we anyway?”
No one knew. It was late and getting cold: they huddled down in blankets and decided to wait for the moon before trying to get out.
“This is better than town, anyway,” Gin said.