A Colonel Harrison Stoddard—colonel from younger service in the National Guard, himself a retired merchant prince whose hobby was industrial relations and social unrest—held the table most of the meal upon the extension of the Employers’ Liability Act so as to include agricultural laborers. But Paula found a space in which casually to give the news to Dick that she was running away for the afternoon on a jaunt up to Wickenberg to the Masons.
“Of course I don’t know when I’ll be back—you know what the Masons are. And I don’t dare ask you to come, though I’d like you along.”
Dick shook his head.
“And so,” she continued, “if you’re not using Saunders—”
Dick nodded acquiescence.
“I’m using Callahan this afternoon,” he explained, on the instant planning his own time now that Paula was out of the question. “I never can make out, Paul, why you prefer Saunders. Callahan is the better driver, and of course the safest.”
“Perhaps that’s why,” she said with a smile. “Safety first means slowest most.”
“Just the same I’d back Callahan against Saunders on a speed-track,” Dick championed.
“Where are you bound?” she asked.
“Oh, to show Colonel Stoddard my one-man and no-horse farm—you know, the automatically cultivated ten-acre stunt I’ve been frivoling with. A lot of changes have been made that have been waiting a week for me to see tried out. I’ve been too busy. And after that, I’m going to take him over the colony—what do you think?—five additions the last week.”