ROSEMARY AND FLOYD
"Floyd, I don't like this a bit!"
"What's the matter, Rosemary?"
The young man driving the sturdy little sport model of a car brought the machine to a stop and glanced at the girl sitting beside him. There was a quizzical smile on his face, a good-natured smile, however.
"What don't you like, Rosemary?" he asked again, and there was not in his tone any air of bored fault-finding such as seems to come natural to some brothers in appealing from a decision of some sisters.
"I don't like the way this trail is shaping up, if you'll excuse my
English," answered Rosemary Boyd.
"Your English is perfectly excusable, Rosemary," retorted Floyd. "In fact I rather like it. It is much better than this trail, to be frank."
"Are you sure we have come the right road?"
"As sure as I can be of anything in this doggoned country, where they haven't enough sign posts. I took the turns they told me to take in the last town we passed through, and all the land marks have run true to form so far."
"But we're a good ways from Uncle Henry's ranch yet; aren't we, Floyd?" and there crept into the voice of Rosemary an anxious note.