“An’ lastly an’ firstly,” exclaimed Weston, “two boxes o’ matches kept separate.”
There had been no advertising of Roy’s departure, and the event passed off with but a few spectators.
“An’ say,” suggested Weston, who had appointed himself a sort of master of ceremonies, “ef ye git time down thar about Pine Alcove an’ are achin’ fur somepin to do, remember my ole friend Banks, the Mormon, the High Mucky-Muck o’ the Lost Injuns. Ef ever ye git time drop into Parowan.”
Roy laughed and promised. Then he spoke upon the subject that he had been thinking about all morning.
“Mr. Cook,” he asked, with a laugh, “what are you going to name the new express?”
“Name?” repeated the manager—they were all standing about the aeroplane. “Why, ah, why—I haven’t any name.”
Roy opened his “carryall” bag and took out the streamer the painter in Newark had made. A moment later, the red letters Parowan were in place.
“Parowan!” exclaimed Mr. Cook. “What’s that?”
“Mr. Weston’ll tell you,” said Roy, reaching out his hand. “I’m off now. Good bye, all. See you this evening.”
Five minutes later, the Parowan was a bird-like speck in the northwest. Sink Weston, with his pack mule trailing behind him, watched it from the trail along the Cottonwood on his way to join the Abaja Peak party.