“Do you think,” she said, “that anyone driving along here at an ordinary rate of speed would see that car?”
“No,” said Donald, getting her idea, “I don’t believe they would.”
“All right, then,” said Linda. “Toe up even and I’ll race YoU to the third curve where you see the big white sycamore.”
Donald had a fleeting impression of a flash of khaki, a gleam of red, and a wave of black as they started. He ran with all the speed he had ever attained at a track meet. He ran with all his might. He ran until his sides strained and his breath came short; but the creature beside him was not running; she was flying; and long before they neared the sycamore he knew he was beaten, so he laughingly cried to her to stop it. Linda turned to him panting and laughing.
“I make that dash every time I come to the canyon, to keep my muscle up, but this is the first time I have had anyone to race with in a long time.”
Then together they slowly walked down the smooth black floor between the canyon walls. As they crossed a small bridge Linda leaned over and looked down.
“Anyone at your house care about ‘nose twister’?” she asked lightly.
“Why, isn’t that watercress?” asked Donald.
“Sure it is,” said Linda. “Anyone at your house like it?”
“Every one of us,” answered Donald. “We’re all batty about cress salad—and, say, that reminds me of something! If you know so much about this canyon and everything in it, is there any place in it where a fellow could find a plant, a kind of salad lettuce, that the Indians used to use?”