When they all reached a point at which they could draw a long breath and begin to straighten things out, Larry looked hard at the sunburned gentleman and said: “Aren’t you Dick Maxwell’s Uncle Billy Starbuck, from Brewster, Colorado?”
“You’ve guessed it the first time,” said the cattle-kingish gentleman with a grim little smile. “And you’re young Donovan, aren’t you?—the fellow who was with Dick last summer up in the Tourmaline?”
“Yes; I’m Larry, and this is Charles Purdick, my room-mate,” said Larry, introducing his fellow rescuer. “We’d been out for a little hike and were going back when we saw you coming.”
“How far are we from town?” asked “Uncle Billy.”
“Only about half a mile; it’s just over the top of that hill,” Larry answered. “If you’ll stay here with the ladies, we’ll run back and find an auto for you. You were going to stop at Sheddon anyway, weren’t you?”
“Again you’ve guessed it,” said the bronzed man, who seemed to be taking the smash-up as calmly as if high-priced cars grew on bushes for anybody to pick. “We were driving through from Chicago to New York, and we came around this way to spend a few hours with Dick before he starts for home.”
Purdick had stood aside while this bit of talk was going on, and he was wondering who the pretty—though somewhat pudgy—little girl was. She had apparently forgotten her cut arm and was standing on the creek bank looking down at the smashed auto. Purdick moved a little nearer because he was afraid the bank would cave in and let her down.
“That bank is pretty soft,” he cautioned. “I wouldn’t go too near the edge if I were you.”
She turned and looked him over appraisingly.