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“Good gracious,” I answered desperately, “that’s just what I’m trying not to do.”

Bang! Quite a spill, but no harm done luckily.

When we reached Humboldt Park, we decided to take a short rest. Propping our machine against the curb, we sat on a bench beneath a tree. While aimlessly poking the litter at its base with my toe, I saw something glitter.

“Look, Dan!” I exulted. “See what I’ve found. Talk of manna in the wilderness.” I held up a silver dollar, a half and two dimes. “I feel sure it is an omen.”

“Yes, an omen of fresh eggs for breakfast to-morrow morning,” replied Dan prosaically.

Once again we were off. The day wore on. Streets gave way to dusty roads full of ruts, into which the wheel appeared possessed to stagger. Dust rose; sweat poured; our throats ached with unquenchable thirst. My arms seemed wrenched from their sockets. Human endurance reached its limit as the sun set.

Wearily we searched for a camping place. Finally, in a grassy hollow, screened from the road by trees, we unpacked our equipment. While Dan took the potato kettle to a near-by house for water, I set up our wire rack and kindled a tiny fire beneath.