Bud did well enough, which was very well indeed. Before the
second season closed with the first fall rains, he had paid for
his big car and got the insurance policy transferred to his name.
He walked up First Street with his hat pushed back and a
cigarette dangling from the quirkiest corner of his mouth, and
his hands in his pockets. The glow of prosperity warmed his
manner toward the world. He had a little money in the bank, he
had his big car, he had the good will of a smiling world. He
could not walk half a block in any one of three or four towns but
he was hailed with a "Hello, Bud!" in a welcoming tone. More
people knew him than Bud remembered well enough to call by
name--which is the final proof of popularity the world over.

In that glowing mood he had met and married a girl who went
into Big Basin with her mother and camped for three weeks. The
girl had taken frequent trips to Boulder Creek, and twice had
gone on to San Jose, and she had made it a point to ride with the
driver because she was crazy about cars. So she said. Marie had
all the effect of being a pretty girl. She habitually wore white
middies with blue collar and tie, which went well with her clear,
pink skin and her hair that just escaped being red. She knew how
to tilt her "beach" hat at the most provocative angle, and she
knew just when to let Bud catch a slow, sidelong glance--of
the kind that is supposed to set a man's heart to syncopatic
behavior. She did not do it too often. She did not powder too
much, and she had the latest slang at her pink tongue's tip and
was yet moderate in her use of it.

Bud did not notice Marie much on the first trip. She was
demure, and Bud had a girl in San Jose who had brought him to