Fanny laughed aloud. The mountain
steam-car was waiting at Loveland. There were few
passengers at this time of year. The driver was a great
tanned giant, pongee colored from his hair to his puttees
and boots. Fanny was to learn, later, that in Estes Park
the male tourist was likely to be puny, pallid, and
unattractive when compared to the tall, slim, straight,
khaki-clad youth, browned by the sun, and the wind, and
the dust, who drives his steamer up and down the perilous
mountain roads with more dexterity than the charioteering
gods ever displayed on Olympus.
Fanny got the seat beside this glorious person. The steamer
was a huge vehicle, boasting five rows of seats, and looking
very much like a small edition of the sightseeing cars one
finds in tourist-infested cities.
"Heyl's place," said Fanny. Suppose it failed to work!
Said the blond god, "Stopping at the Inn overnight, I
s'pose."
"Why--I don't know," faltered Fanny. "Can't I go right on
to--to--Heyl's place?"
"Can." Mountain steamer men are not loquacious.
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