Four Afoot: Being the Adventures of the Big Four on the Highway. Barbour Ralph Henry

right,” said Bob sadly. “We got too far north.”

      “I should say we did!” snorted Dan. “About eight miles!”

      “But I don’t see how we managed to get off the right road,” said Bob.

      “I do,” answered Nelson. “Don’t you remember when Tom was laid out? There were two roads there just beyond. We must have taken the wrong one.”

      “That’s so,” said Tom; “I remember.”

      “Lots of good your remembering does now,” grunted Nelson. “If you hadn’t got to fussing with those pies – !”

      “Thought you was in Jericho, did yer?” asked the shopkeeper with a chuckle. They nodded soberly. “Well, well, that’s a good joke, ain’t it?”

      “Swell!” muttered Dan.

      Tom grunted something about choking.

      “Is there any place here where we can get something to eat?” asked Bob.

      “I guess not, but there’s a hotel about a mile along. I guess you can get something there.”

      So they prevailed on him to go to the door with them and point out the way.

      “It’s on your way to Jericho,” said the storekeeper, pointing out the road. “You turn down that first road there and then bear to the left until you come to a big white farmhouse. Then you turn to the right and keep on about half a mile, or maybe a mile, and the Center House is just a little beyond. It’s a brown house with lots of windows and a barn.”

      “Can’t help finding it,” muttered Dan sarcastically.

      They were rather quiet as they passed through the village and took the turn indicated. From one house came an enticing odor of onions, and Dan leaned up against a telephone pole and pretended to weep. That mile was as long as two, but in the end they came into sight of the “brown house with lots of windows and a barn.” But it didn’t look very hospitable. The windows were closed and shuttered, and the barn appeared to be in the last stages of decay. With sinking hearts they climbed the steps and beat a tattoo on the front door. All was silence.

      “Empty!” groaned Nelson.

      “Nothing doing!” murmured Dan.

      “Hit it again,” counseled Tommy.

      They all took a hand at beating on that door, but it didn’t do the least bit of good. The place was empty and closed up. Nelson sat down on the top step and stared sadly across the country road. Tom joined him.

      “Wish I had some more of that pie,” he muttered.

      Bob produced the map, which was already getting frayed at the corners, and opened it out.

      “The best thing to do,” he said, “is to keep on till we find a farmhouse or something, and beg some food.”

      “I could eat raw dog,” said Dan. “Any houses in sight on that lying map of yours?”

      “Sure.”

      “How many miles off?”

      “About – er – about two or three, I should say.”

      “Can’t be done,” said Dan decidedly. “I couldn’t walk two miles if there was a thousand dollars at the end of it.”

      “I could do it if there was a ham sandwich at the end of it,” said Nelson.

      “Hunger has driven him daffy,” explained Dan sadly.

      “Well, there’s no use staying here,” said Bob impatiently.

      “Oh, I don’t know. Might as well die here as anywhere,” answered Nelson.

      “Wasn’t it your father, Dan, who said the beauty about Long Island was that the towns were near together and we could get good accommodations easily?” asked Tom.

      Dan made no answer.

      Suddenly a noise startled them. At the end of the porch stood a boy of sixteen in an old blue shirt and faded overalls. He was plainly surprised to see them, and stood looking at them for several seconds before he spoke. Finally,

      “Hello!” he said.

      “Greetings,” answered Dan. “Will you kindly send the head waiter to us?”

      “Huh?” asked the youth.

      “Well, never mind then. Just show us to our rooms. We’ll have a light lunch sent up and keep our appetites for dinner.”

      “Is the hotel closed?” interrupted Bob. The youth nodded.

      “Yep. They didn’t make no money last summer, so they didn’t open it this year. Did you knock?”

      “Oh, no, we didn’t exactly knock,” answered Dan. “We only kind of tapped weakly.”

      “Want anything?”

      “Yes, a man at Bakerville said we could get some dinner here. I don’t suppose we can, though,” added Bob sadly. The other shook his head slowly.

      “Guess not,” he said. “There’s a hotel at Minton Hill, though. There’s lots of summer folks there.”

      “How far’s that?”

      “Not more’n six miles.”

      The four groaned in unison.

      “We haven’t had anything since seven o’clock,” said Nelson.

      “You ain’t?” The youth became instantly sympathetic. “Well, ain’t that too bad?”

      The question scarcely seemed to demand an answer and so received none. The youth in the overalls frowned deeply.

      “Well, now, look here,” he said finally. “Me an’ dad lives back here in the barn and looks after the farm. We ain’t got much, but if some bread and butter and milk will do, why, I guess – ”

      The four threw themselves upon him as one man.

      “Bread!” shouted Dan.

      “Butter!” cried Nelson.

      “Milk!” gurgled Tommy.

      “Lead the way!” said Bob.

      CHAPTER III

      INTRODUCES MR. JERRY HINKLEY AND AN IMPROMPTU DINNER

      That was a strange meal and an enjoyable one. The menu wasn’t elaborate, but their appetites were, and not one of the four was inclined to be critical. What had formerly been the carriage house had been fitted up with a couple of cot beds, some chairs, a stove, and a table, into an airy, if not very well-appointed, apartment. The boy in overalls, whose name during the subsequent conversation transpired to be Jerry Hinkley, produced a loaf of bread and a pat of butter from a box, and then disappeared for a minute. When he returned he brought a battered tin can half full of milk. Eating utensils were scarce, and the boys had to take turns with the two knives and the two thick china cups. The table boasted no cloth, and Tom had to sit on an empty box, but those were mere details.

      “I looked to see if I could find a few eggs,” said Jerry, as he poured out the milk, “but we ain’t got but eight hens and they ain’t been layin’ much lately.”

      “This will do finely,” mumbled Dan, with his mouth full of bread and butter.

      “It’s swell,” said Tom from behind his cup.

      The doors were wide open, and the September sunlight streamed in over the dusty floor. A bedraggled rooster, followed cautiously by a trio of dejected-looking hens, approached and observed the banquet from the doorsill, clucking suspiciously. Jerry sat on the edge of one of the cots and watched proceedings with interest. But he seemed uneasy, and once or twice he started up only to change his mind with a troubled frown and return to his seat. Finally he asked awkwardly:

      “Say, was you fellows meanin’ to pay anything for your food?”

      “Of course,” Bob assured him. “You don’t think we’re going