I told him proudly. Instead of being impressed by its make and power he remarked: “Humph! You’d better go in a Ford! But suit yourself! At any rate, you can open her wide along here, as wide as you like if the weather is right.” At the foot of the Rocky Mountains his pencil swerved far south.
“Way down there?” I asked. “That is all desert. Can we cross the desert?”
“Why can’t you?” He looked me over from head to foot. I had felt he held small opinion of me from the start. “I only wondered if the roads were passable,” I answered meekly.
“The roads are all right.” He accented the word “roads.”
“I was wondering if there were hotels.”
“And what if there aren’t? Splendid open dry country; won’t hurt anyone to sleep out a night or two. It’d do you good! A doctor’d charge you money for that advice. I’m giving it to you free!”
On the doorstep at home I met my amateur chauffeur.
“Have you found out about routes?” he asked.
“We go by way of Cleveland and Chicago.”
He looked far from pleased. “Is that so much the best way?”