Gopher Prairie has all of five thousand people. Its commercial club
asserts that it has at least a thousand more population and an
infinitely better band than the ridiculously envious neighboring town of
Joralemon. But there were few signs that a suite had been engaged for
the Boltwoods, or that Prince Collars and Cuffs had on his royal tour of
America spent much time in Gopher Prairie. Claire reached it somewhat
before seven. She gaped at it in a hazy way. Though this was her first
prairie town for a considerable stay, she could not pump up interest.
The state of mind of the touring motorist entering a strange place at
night is as peculiar and definite as that of a prospector. It is
compounded of gratitude at having got safely in; of perception of a new
town, yet with all eagerness about new things dulled by weariness; of
hope that there is going to be a good hotel, but small expectation--and
absolutely no probability--that there really will be one.
Claire had only a blotched impression of peaked wooden buildings and
squatty brick stores with faded awnings; of a red grain elevator and a
crouching station and a lumberyard; then of the hopelessly muddy road
leading on again into the country. She felt that if she didn't stop at
once, she would miss the town entirely. The driving-instinct sustained
her, made her take corners sharply, spot a garage, send the Gomez
whirling in on the cement floor.
The garage attendant looked at her and yawned.
"Where do you want the car?" Claire asked sharply.
"Oh, stick it in that stall," grunted the man, and turned his back.
Claire glowered at him. She thought of a good line about rudeness.
But--oh, she was too tired to fuss. She tried to run the car into the
empty stall, which was not a stall, but a space, like a missing tooth,
between two cars, and so narrow that she was afraid of crumpling the
lordly fenders of the Gomez. She ran down the floor, returned with a
flourish, thought she was going to back straight into the stall--and
found she wasn't. While her nerves shrieked, and it did not seem
possible that she could change gears, she managed to get the Gomez
behind a truck and side-on to the stall.
"Go forward again, and cramp your wheel--sharp!" ordered the garage man.
Claire wanted to outline what she thought of him, but she merely
demanded, "Will you kindly drive it in?"
"Why, sure. You bet," said the man casually. His readiness ruined her
inspired fury. She was somewhat disappointed.
As she climbed out of the car and put a hand on the smart bags strapped
on a running-board, the accumulated weariness struck her in a shock. She
could have driven on for hours, but the instant the car was safe for the
night, she went to pieces. Her ears rang, her eyes were soaked in fire,
her mouth was dry, the back of her neck pinched. It was her father who
took the lead as they rambled to the one tolerable hotel in the town.