Sealman had the air of slowing down, after an unusually long nonstop run, to show off his acquaintance with the country. "That great sandy stretch is the bed of the Santa Ana," said he. "Why, there's so much sand and so little water mostly, they have to sprinkle the bed to keep it from flyin' about the landscape, as if 'twas a pile o' feathers. It ain't like the Oro, where first they found gold, and then, when they thought they'd got the lot, come across more in the cobbles. Not only that, but by some scientific process or other--you wouldn't understand if I told you--they washed the river-bed, so the sand and stones riz. 'Stirrin' up the alluvial deposits' was what they called it; till they could get hold of the cobbles again, to crush 'em for road-makin'. Roads was needed bad them days! And at last they hauled out the mud from the bottom to plaster over the desert that was here, so oranges and olives and grapes could take to growin'. Sort of wonderful, wasn't it?"
Angela could have told him a great deal more than he had told her, about these "scientific processes," for her father had been one of the men most interested in their success. But she kept her knowledge to herself.
"Yes, it's wonderful," she replied. "But--don't you think we'd better be going on? We've a long way before us, according to the map."
"Yes, we'll go right on," said Sealman. "I just thought I'd stop her and point out the Santa Ana, for fear you'd miss it." He was anxious to conceal the fact that it was the Model who had "just thought," but, urging her to begin again where she had left off, the little brute refused to budge.
"Is anything wrong?" asked Angela, when Sealman had worked in worried silence for several minutes.
"Can't see nothing," said he, increasing in codfishiness. "She'll be all right in a minute. Give her time to breathe!"
Angela gave her time to breathe, but the minute passed, and other minutes limped after. Sealman sweated and grunted under the open lid of the bright bonnet. Angela was sorry for him. But she was more sorry for herself, as she counted the nearest rows of orange-trees for the twenty-fifth time, following them with her eyes, as they ran up the ankles and legs of the little yellow mountains. It was luncheon-time, and she was hungry. She had been reading about the Mission Inn at Riverside, and picturing herself there, in a cool, large dining-room.