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The clapping of Miss Drexel's hands was the first warning Davies received that the feat was accomplished, and, swinging on to the running board, he found the car backing in the straight-away up the next zig-zag and Wemple still chanting ecstatically, "Oh, you Merry Olds, you Merry Olds!"
"They've quit," Davies announced. "It never entered their stupid heads that they could have caught us on Aliso Hill." "It can't be done," was Charley Drexel's quick judgment of youth, as the machine stopped and they surveyed the acute-angled turn on the stiff up-grade of Aliso. Beneath was the swift-running river. "Get out everybody!" Wemple commanded.
Behind, another shack, the post-office; and off beyond the hill, the ranch house of Mr. and Mrs. Day, two of the best known characters on the Arizona frontier. A mile down the arroyo is the convent school, Miss Drexel's Mission for the Indians; a fine, massive structure of brick and stone, equal to any of the famous Jesuit and Ursuline schools so famous in the history of Quebec.
The cause was a series of hog-wallows masked with mud, which nearly tore the steering wheel from Drexel's hands before he could reduce speed. "Wonder it didn't break an axle," Davies growled. "Go on and take it easy, Charley. We're past any interference." They swung into the Dutch camp and into the beginning of their real troubles.
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