"An' me, I never know when she goin' to break down," he said with one of his disarming smiles.
Hotchkiss quarreled with the Mexican before the party got off. "How do I know where you're takin' me? I can't buy a map of the country—don't believe they ever made one down here. And who are these folks I'm a-travelin' with? I thought they were Mex; but I see they are white folks."
"What am I—nigger, huh?" demanded Carlitos, "You not lik-a travel weeth me, you pay me an' stop here. I no care."
"We won't bite you, Mister," drawled Marty, keeping well in the background, however. "What are you scared of?"
"What's your name?" growled Hotchkiss suspiciously.
"Down here it's George Washington. What's yours?" returned Marty, chuckling and backing still further away.
"Just as near Abraham Lincoln as yours is George Washington," snarled Hotchkiss.
Marty and Janice got into the car, having gone around back of it to enter from the opposite side. Hotchkiss climbed in beside the Mexican driver, still muttering about "not knowing where he was bound for."
The road was rougher than it had been the day before and much of the way it was ascending. So the automobile went slowly. The engine sputtered—and so did Tom Hotchkiss. Carlitos was sunk in sullen mood and his comments—usually addressed to the car—were in Spanish, and scarcely translatable.
Janice became exceedingly weary before the morning was half over. Riding over plowed ground in a springless cart would have been little worse than being jounced about in this automobile.