When supper was over and cleared away, and they were sitting around the little camp fire, in their sweaters again, for the evening chill had descended with the sun, a man strolled over from the near-by camp.
“Kind o’ cold up here,” he remarked.
“Drained your radiator?” Mr. Stone asked.
“No. What you giving us?”
“Just as you like,” Mr. Stone replied. “If you like a busted radiator, it’s up to you. I don’t care.”
“You mean to tell me it’ll freeze up? Why, it was eighty-eight in the shade in Medford this morning.”
“It was probably hotter than that in Los Angeles,” said Uncle Billy, with a wink at Mr. Stone.
“No, sir!” the other man retorted. “No siree, Bob. We have the finest climate in Southern California there is in the world. Never too hot, and never too cold.”
“It’s the climate,” chuckled Bennie.
“You bet your life it’s the climate, kid,” said the man.