These fled, squawking, when Mr. Gordon ran the car into the ditch and an old woman hobbled out to greet him.
“Well, Grandma,” he called cheerily, raising his voice, for she was slightly deaf, “I’ve brought you two young folks bag and baggage, just as I promised. I suspect they’ve brought appetites with them, too.”
“Glad to see you,” said the old woman, putting out a gnarled hand. Her eyes were bright and clear as a bird’s, and she had a quick, darting way of glancing at one that was like a bird, too. “Emma’s got the supper on,” she announced. “She’s frying chicken.”
“I’ll go in and tell Mrs. Watterby that she may count on me,” declared Mr. Gordon jovially, as Bob jumped down and helped Betty out. “I never miss a chance to eat fried chicken, never. I wonder if it will be fried in oil?”
“Emma uses lard,” said Grandma Watterby placidly.
CHAPTER IX
OLD INDIAN LORE
Mr. Gordon stayed over night, but was off early in the morning. Bob and Betty watched his rickety car out of sight, and then, determined to keep busy and happy, set out to explore the Watterby farm.