With his fishing outfit he could pass unquestioned to any part of that mysterious, vague region known as Northern California.

The Russian River country, Tahoe, Shasta Springs, Feather River--the names revolved teasingly through Jack's mind.

He did not know anything about them, beyond the fact that they were places where fellows went for sport, and that he hoped people would think he went for sport also.

His wading boots and his rod and creel would, he hoped, account for any haste he might betray in losing himself somewhere.
Lose himself he must.

If he did not, if his mother got the chance to put him through the tearful third-degree system that women employ with such deadly certainty of success, Jack knew that he would tell all that he knew--perhaps more.