"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.

"How far are we from a railway station?" she asked desperately, when her
watch said that they had sat by the Santa Ana's bedside for thirty-five
minutes.

"Can't tell you that, ma'am," snapped Sealman. "But it's too far to walk,
unless you've got seven-league boots."

"What's the matter? Haven't you found out _yet?_"

"Thought it might be the pump. But it doesn't seem to be. I give it up!"
And he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief that left green streaks of
oil.

"But you mustn't give it up. We can't stop here all day."

Sealman grinned viciously. Perhaps he, too, hungered. Certainly he was
hot, and felt like a Socialist. What was this young woman that she should