She’d a dark and roving eye, And her hair hung down in ringlets, A NICE girl, a DECENT girl (here his voice cracked) But one of the rakish kind. Then they had “Lord Geoffrey Amherst,” and in spite of many protests, Gin sang doggedly to the end of “The Sweetheart of Sigma Chi.” To the east there was a pale white glow in the sky, outlining the hills. Blake saw a glimpse of the moon. He cried out his discovery, and the heavy white ball lifted into the sky to the accompaniment of four fresh young voices rising out of the valley, chanting, “God bless the bastard king of dear old England.” They stirred themselves and began to dig in the sand. After a while they freed the car and it seemed to work all right. Harvey backed it out and retraced his wheel-tracks to the edge of the main road. “Now where?” “Anywhere,” said Madden, waving grandly. “Out into the world.” He hoisted himself up to the back again: Gin followed suit in the front seat, and the three balancing figures jogged and reeled as Harvey drove on toward Taos. It was almost as light as day. They passed one other machine: driving on in the path of the headlight glow they waved and shrieked until a curve cut it off. Blake drummed with his heels on the leather cushion in a burst of exhilaration. They left the main road and followed the way to Frijoles Canyon. The car went slower, going through rivers with a cautious swoop and turning corners on all four wheels. Long shadows lay across the silver-splashed fields. It seemed impossible that all the light could be coming from the moon, that was now only a little ball swimming in clouds up toward the centre of the sky. Everything but the car was motionless and asleep. Houses with blank dead eyes crouched by the road. No dogs ran out to race with the wheels. Blake sank back into the corner of the seat. His head dropped: the shadows blurred and the sound of the engine was more stupefying than silence. He reached with stiff fingers for a blanket, curled up in it and fell into a sort of sleep, his elbows braced against shock. In his dream he was still in the car, riding steadily through the river at school or across baked yellow plains, arguing with Dr. Miller. Sometimes he jerked and waked up, glanced worriedly at Gin’s head against the cushion ahead of him, and closed his eyes again. The night was fading. The car stopped and he woke up completely. He sat up, blinking, and stared at Madden, who was kneeling by the ditch and fishing in the water with a hat. “What is it?” “We need water,” Gin explained. Her bare knees were propped up over the door, and she powdered her nose vigorously. “We couldn’t find anything to use for it. I hope that’s not your hat?” “No,” he assured her. “It’s been kicking around in this car for a long time, I think.”