So he did not follow up that conversational lead. He was not going to
bare his soul offhand to gratify any woman's curiosity. It would be very
easy to make a blithering ass of himself again--with her--because of
her. Already he was on his guard against that. His pride was alert.
Sophie stowed the canvas tool roll under the seat cushion. She climbed
to her seat behind the steering column and turned to Thompson.
"Which way are you bound?" she asked. "I'll give you a lift, and we can
talk."
"I'm on my way to San Francisco," he said. "But time is no object in my
young life right now, or I'd take the Interurban instead of walking. It
would be demoralizing to me, I'm afraid, to whiz down these roads in a
machine like this."
Sophie shoved the opposite door open.
"Get in," she let a flavor of reproof creep into her tone. "Don't talk
that sort of nonsense."
Thompson hesitated. He was suddenly uncomfortable, conscious of his
dusty clothes somewhat the worse for wear, his shoes from which the
pristine freshness had long vanished, the day-old stubble on his chin.
There was a depressing contrast between his outward condition and that
of the smartly dressed girl whose gray eyes were resting curiously on
him now.
"Do you make a practice of picking up tramps along the road?" he parried
with an effort at lightness. He wanted to refuse outright, yet could not
utter the words. "I'm not very presentable."
"Get in. Don't be silly," she said impatiently. "You don't think I've
become a snob just because chance has pitchforked me into the ranks of
the idle rich, do you?"
Thompson laughed awkwardly. There was real feeling in her tone, as if
she had read correctly his hesitation and resented it. After all, why
not? It would merely be an incident to Sophie Carr, and it would save
him some hot and dusty miles. He got in.
"I'm quite curious to know where you've been and what you've been doing
for the last year," she said, when the red car was once more rolling
toward the city at a sedate pace. "And by the way, where did you learn
to change a tire so smartly?"
"My last job," Thompson told her truthfully, "was washing cars,
greasing up, and changing tires in a country garage down in the San
Juan." He paused for a moment. "Before that I was chaperon to a stable
full of horses on a Salinas ranch. I've tried being a carpenter's
helper, an assistant gardener, understudy to a suburban plumber--and
other things too numerous to mention--in the last three months. I think
the most satisfactory thing I've tackled was the woods up north, last
fall."
"You must have acquired experience, at least, even if none of those
things proved an efficient method of making money," she returned
lightly.