“Oh, eight or nine miles.”
Out went Varley’s arm. He pointed to a gap in a ridge to the right.
“That’s a queer jog off there. What is it? Railroad cut?”
“No; it’s the entrance to Sugar Valley.”
“Ah,” said Varley politely, but without especial interest.
Sam felt the blood rush to his face, but plunged ahead with the explanation he seemed to be bound to make. “The valley widens out a lot a little way in. And there are some fine sugar camps—that’s how the place gets its name.”
“Sugar camps?” Varley repeated doubtfully.
“Yes—for making maple sugar.”
“Oh, maple sugar? I get you. I’d like to see ’em make it.”
Sam could have hugged him. Plainly enough, Sugar Valley did not suggest Mrs. Grant and her manifestation of gratitude.