"None of us has time to look for it. We are too busy trying to sell cars to people who love horses."
II
In the end Randy got his car. And after that he, too, might have been seen running shuttle-like back and forth over the red roads. Nellie Custis was usually beside him on the front seat. She took her new honors seriously. For generations back her forbears had loped with flapping ears in the lead of a hunting pack. To be sitting thus on a leather seat and whirled through the air with no need of legs from morning until night required some readjustment on the part of Nellie Custis. But she had always followed where Randy led. And in time she grew to like it, and watched the road ahead with eager eyes, and with her ears perpetually cocked.
Now and then Becky sat beside Randy, with Nellie at her feet. The difference between a ride with Randy and one with George Dalton was,
Becky felt, the difference a not unpleasant commonplace and the stuff that dreams are made of.
"It is rather a duck of a car," she had said, the first time he took her out in it.
"Yes, it is," Randy had agreed. "I am getting tremendously fond of her. I have named her 'Little Sister.'"
"Oh, Randy, you haven't."
"Yes, I have. She has such confiding ways. I never believed that cars had human qualities, Becky."
"They are not horses of course."