“Then we'll drift. George, suppose you pile Miss Sumner's hand-baggage in the tonneau and then pile in there yourself and keep Marcelle company. I'll drive; and you can sit up in front with me, Miss Sumner, snug behind the wind-shield where you'll not be blown about.”
“I'm sure this is going to be a far pleasanter journey than the stage could possibly have afforded,” she said graciously as Bryce slipped in beside her and took the wheel.
“You are very kind to share the pleasure with me, Miss Sumner.” He went through his gears, and the car glided away on its journey. “By the way,” he said suddenly as he turned west toward the distant blue mountains of Trinity County, “how did you happen to connect me with Cardigan's redwoods?”
“I've heard my uncle, Colonel Seth Pennington, speak of them.”
“Colonel Seth Pennington means nothing in my young life. I never heard of him before; so I dare say he's a newcomer in our country. I've been away six years,” he added in explanation.
“We're from Michigan. Uncle was formerly in the lumber business there, but he's logged out now.”
“I see. So he came West, I suppose, and bought a lot of redwood timber cheap from some old croaker who never could see any future to the redwood lumber industry. Personally, I don't think he could have made a better investment. I hope I shall have the pleasure of making his acquaintance when I deliver you to him. Perhaps you may be a neighbour of mine. Hope so.”
At this juncture George Sea Otter, who had been an interested listener to the conversation, essayed a grunt from the rear seat. Instantly, to Shirley Sumner's vast surprise, her host grunted also; whereupon George Sea Otter broke into a series of grunts and guttural exclamations which evidently appeared quite intelligible to her host, for he slowed down to five miles an hour and cocked one ear to the rear; apparently he was profoundly interested in whatever information his henchman had to impart. When George Sea Otter finished his harangue, Bryce nodded and once more gave his attention to tossing the miles behind him.
“What language was that?” Shirley Sumner inquired, consumed with curiosity.
“Digger Indian,” he replied. “George's mother was my nurse, and he and I grew up together. So I can't very well help speaking the language of the tribe.”