The hard white road stretched out, like a winding river, between
banks of dew-gleaming verdure. The mountain-tops were glowing
with the touch of the sun. In the deeper valleys floated a
shimmering dusk.
The car sped swiftly along the empty highway; slowing down only
as it spun through half-awakened villages; or checked its pace to
allow a sleepy boy to drive a straggling bunch of cows across the
road to pasturage.
For an hour or more, Lad lay cuddled under the rug in contented
laziness. Then the recumbent posture tired him; and he sat up. As
a rule, one or the other of his deities was wont to turn around,
at intervals, and speak to him or pet him. Today, neither of them
paid him the slightest attention. Still, the ride was a joy. And
the surrounding country was new and interesting. So Lad had a
good time, in spite of human neglect. After another hour or so,
he curled up again, among the bags, and fell to drowsing.
A six-hour run, over good roads, brought the car to Kingston, at
the gateway to the Catskills. Here, at a hotel entrance, the
machine came to a standstill.
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