“Ah,” sighed Henri Marchand. “Like la belle France before the war. Such peace and quietude we knew, too. Fortunate you are, my friends, that le Boche has not trampled these fields into bloody mire.”
This comment he made when they halted the cars at a certain overlook to view the landscape. But they could not stop often. Their first objective inn was still a long way ahead.
They did not, however, reach the inn, which was a resort well known to motorists. Five miles away Tom noticed that the car was acting strangely.
“What is it, Tom?” demanded Ruth quickly.
“Steering gear, I am afraid. Something is loose.”
It did not take him long to make an examination, and in the meantime the second car came alongside.
“It might hold out until we get to the hotel ahead; but I think we had better stop before that time if we can,” was Tom’s comment. “I do not want the thing to break and send us flying over a stone wall or up a tree.”
“But you can fix it, Tom?” questioned Ruth.
“Sure! But it will take half an hour or more.”
After that they ran along slowly and presently came in sight of a place called the Drovers’ Tavern.