California, Southern -- Fiction; Motion picture industry -- Fiction; Petroleum industry and trade -- Fiction; Political fiction
Other hills were all rock, of an endless variety of color. You saw
surfaces mottled and spotted like the skins of beasts—tawny leopards,
and creatures red and grey or black and white, whose names you did not
know. There were hills made of boulders, scattered as if giants had been
throwing them in battle; there were blocks piled up, as if the children
of giants had grown tired of play. Rocks towered like cathedral arches
over the road; through such an arch you swung out into view of a gorge,
yawning below, with a stout white barrier to protect you as you made the
turn. Out of the clouds overhead a great bird came sailing; his wings
collapsed as if he had been shot, and he dived into the abyss. “Was that
an eagle?” asked the boy. “Buzzard,” answered Dad, who had no romance in
him.
Higher and higher they climbed, the engine purring softly, one unvarying
note. Underneath the wind-shield were dials and gauges in complicated
array: a speedometer with a little red line showing exactly how fast you
were going; a clock, and an oil gauge, a gas gauge, an ammeter, and a
thermometer that mounted slowly on a long grade like this. All these
things were in Dad’s consciousness—a still more complicated machine.
For, after all, what was ninety horsepower compared with a million
dollar power? An engine might break down, but Dad’s mind had the
efficiency of an eclipse of the sun. They were due at the top of the
grade by ten o’clock; and the boy’s attitude was that of the old farmer
with a new gold watch, who stood on his front-porch in the early
morning, remarking, “If that sun don’t get over the hill in three
minutes, she’s late.”
III
But something went wrong and spoiled the schedule. You had got up into
the fog, and cold white veils were sweeping your face. You could see all
right, but the fog had wet the road, and there was clay on it, a
combination that left the most skilful driver helpless. Dad’s quick eye
noted it, and he slowed down; a fortunate thing, for the car began to
slide, and almost touched the white wooden barrier that guarded the
outer edge.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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