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There were some difficulties at first. They had brought several articles with them from Denver: a case of guns and tackle, three donkeys, a cook, and an automobile. The guns were useless, since it was closed season on everything but chipmunks and small birds. As for the donkeys, Steamboat Lake — the village — was already full of them.

The automobile had beautiful lines and its engine was smooth as butter; but it refused to climb hills, and the Rockies will slope.

But worst of all was the cook. In his sober moments — that is to say, for the first day or two — he was bad enough; but the third morning — He had evidently decided that Mr. Brillon had brought along just one too many cases of champagne, and attempted to remedy the error in one heroic coup.

When they found him he was frightfully drunk, even for a cook. Brillon packed him off with a ticket back to Denver.

And that was how Sanétomo came into his own again.

“You don’t object to cooking for us, do you, ’Tomo?” asked his master.

A swift gleam appeared in the eyes of the yellow man.

“No, sir. I like.”

“All right. Thank the Lord! Luncheon at one. Come on, Dora, let’s see if we can push that confounded car uphill.”

Many pleasant days followed. There were peaks to be climbed, trout to be caught, cañons and forests to be explored; and best of all, Brillon finally succeeded in persuading the automobile that it was the duty of a Christian car to toil upward.

After that they made delightful daily excursions. They would coax the motor through some winding valley or along a narrow road at the brink of a precipice until the way became steep beyond all reason, and then they would get out and open a hamper; and there, on the cool grass beside a little tumbling mountain stream, with the light, winey air in their nostrils and the songs of birds in their ears, they would sit and eat good things and perhaps while away a whole afternoon reading or talking, or merely gazing in silence at the soft green of the valleys below and the dim gray and purple peaks in the distance.

They usually took Sanétomo along to look after the hamper. Brillon insisted on it, and Dora kept her objections to herself.

It was really a sacrifice on her part, for the yellow man’s presence took away a good half of her pleasure. It sounds unreasonable enough, and indeed she thought it so herself; but she hated the very sight of him. Instinctive aversion is stubborn, and grows.

There was certainly nothing in Sanétomo’s behavior or appearance to warrant dislike, beyond the fact that his skin was yellow. He was always quiet, always efficient, and never impudent or obtrusive. In the automobile he sat in front with his master, who drove; and not once would he turn his head; nor would he betray the slightest sign of anxiety or fear when they crept along at the edge of a chasm and Dora would be begging her husband to stop with every turn of the wheels.

Arrived at a halting place, Sanétomo would unstrap the hamper and find a shady spot of green to spread the cloth — and with what a feast would he cover it! The meal over, he would pack up again; and then he would sit down somewhere against a tree and — what?

That was a question. What was in his mind? Dreams of far-away Nippon? Considerations of the ragout to be served at dinner that evening? Or simply nothing at all?

He would sit for hours without moving a muscle of his face, with his little black eyes staring dully, apparently at nothing. Sometimes he would turn them on his master, more seldom on his master’s wife. But they would remain utterly expressionless; no one could have guessed his thoughts, or whether he had any.

Once Dora, happening to turn and meet his gaze, addressed her husband in a tone of irritation:

“Harry, I wish you would tell Sanétomo to stop looking at me. He annoys me.”

Brillon, who was lying on his back in the grass, laughed good-humoredly.

“Is he looking at you? I don’t blame him. You grow more bewitching every day here in the mountains.”

“I say he annoys me,” repeated Dora angrily, ashamed of her petulance, but too irritated to keep the words back.

“Really?” Brillon turned lazily. “ ’Tomo, you hear what your mistress says. Don’t annoy her. Look the other way.”

The Japanese had turned the offending eyes on the ground.

“Tatta Sanétomo,” he said quietly. “I sorry.”

And after that Dora met his gaze no more. But yes — once.

One day toward the end of August they had left the bungalow quite early in the morning, intending to reach Cotton Pass, about sixty miles north of Steamboat Lake, by midday. But the latter half of the way was unknown to them, and they met more hills and dangerous roads than they had bargained for.

Several times Brillon was forced to stop the car and walk some distance ahead to see if a passage was safe, or even possible; and when noon came they found themselves still twenty miles short of their destination.

Soon after they came across a clearing at the roadside where even the scrub oak had not found sufficient soil for its tough roots; and Brillon turned the wheels to the left and stopped the motor with a sigh of relief.

“Come on, ’Tomo, break out the grub,” he directed, jumping down. “Here you go, Dora. Gad, I’m hungry! And I haven’t a nerve left in my body. What an infernal road!”

Beyond the clearing they found a grassy spot under some trees, and there Sanétomo carried the hamper and spread out its contents on a dazzling white cloth.

Brillon was in ill-humor, and Dora, badly shaken by the rough and dangerous journey, was enjoying a well-developed attack of nerves; also they were disappointed at being forced to give up the visit to Cotton Pass.

Naturally they took it out on Sanétomo. Nothing was right. Why hadn’t he brought Fantori instead of Megauvin? He should have known that Megauvin will not stand shaking. The bread was too dry; surely he ought to be able to wrap bread properly. And are these the best olives to be procured? Better, a thousand times better, no olives at all!

Sanétomo merely kept repeating: “I sorry,” without the slightest change of countenance, filling and refilling their glasses and plates.

“For Heaven’s sake don’t say that again!” cried Dora suddenly dropping her napkin. “You’ll drive me crazy!”

“Yes,” agreed Brillon; “keep still, ’Tomo.”

“I sorry,” said the Japanese gravely.

“ ’Tomo!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell him to go away,” said Dora crossly. “I wish you wouldn’t bring him along at all Harry. Creepy little yellow thing!”

“Oh, come now—” Brillon began to protest, but she interrupted him:

“Yes, he is! He gets on my nerves.”

“Dora!”

Brillon glanced at Sanétomo, who was gathering up the dishes and bottles without any indication that the conversation concerned him in the slightest degree; so he merely shrugged his shoulders and took another sandwich.

When the meal was finished they lay on the grass for half an hour, Brillon smoking cigarettes and Dora trying to rest, while Sanétomo repacked the hamper and strapped it in the car. Then Brillon rose to his feet, saying that they must make sure of reaching Steamboat Lake before nightfall or they might not reach it at all.

He helped Dora to the tonneau, then took the wheel with Sanétomo at his side.

There was barely room in the clearing to turn the car, and after a great deal of backing and starting Brillon managed to get its nose pointed south. With a sigh he settled to his task, cursing himself for having undertaken a road avoided by everyone else for its discomfort and danger.