"No, I can't—not until mornin', anyhow."
"Then tell us how to get on the right road, and you can send your bill to Elmwood Hall. Fairfield is my name—Tom Fairfield," cried our hero.
"Oh, I'll send you the bill all right," snapped the farmer. "I'll attend to that, and ye'll pay th' last cent due, too, let me tell you that!"
"All right," agreed Tom with a sigh. "I suppose you'll charge us double, but we've got to expect that from such as you."
"What do you mean?" snapped, the man swinging his lantern up so he could see Tom's face.
"You know what I mean! You don't seem to want to be reasonable. Now, if it's all the same to you, will you kindly direct us to the right road? And as soon as your bill comes in I'll settle it, though I want to say that we had no idea of injuring your corn, and wouldn't have gotten into your field but that we got lost."
"Huh! That's a likely story. I know you fresh young school squabs!"
"Oh, where's the road?" asked Tom impatiently. "We don't care much for your opinions!"
"Find it yourself!" snapped the man. "I'll not show you, and the sooner you get off my property the better for you!"
"Humph! I can't say that I admire your disposition," spoke Tom, in exasperation, for he was cold and wet, and the prospect of reporting in late, and making a failure of the cross-country run, was not pleasant.