“Come Here Often,” I made up of the three capital letters, looking around at the Sahara sandscape. “Yes, I will—not!”
“I should imagine,” came thoughtfully, as the leader studied the map, “that a better scheme than going back will be to cross the river at New Zion and pick up the other road. For both roads lead into Sandy Ridge. And that’s our next regular town.”
“How far have we come?” I inquired.
The leader got out his “log” book.
“About sixty-two miles.”
“What!” I squeaked. “Has it taken us all day to cover sixty-two miles?”
“Here’s the dope: The first automobile carried us twelve miles. The next one kissed a telephone pole before it had gone a mile. The third one got on the wrong road and we lost seven miles. The fourth one—”
I let out a yip.
“The end of a perfectless day!” I sang noisily. “And you were the bird,” I threw at him, “who said that some automobiles would carry us a hundred miles at a jump. Poppy! Poppy! I believed in you, and now my sugar is salt.”
“I guess I put it pretty strong,” says he, with a sheepish look.