They did not know how soon they were to meet their friend again, nor in what a peculiar manner he was able to aid them in return for what they had done for him.
For several days the auto skimmed along through a somewhat lonely country. The roads were not very good and a number of times progress was so slow that only a few miles were made between sunrise and sunset. Now and then the travelers would come to a lonely cabin, where they could replenish their food supply or get a night’s lodging. But, in the main, they had to depend on their own resources.
Occasionally they would reach a little settlement, where their arrival never failed to produce as much excitement as a fire and circus combined. Every day brought them nearer their gold mine, concerning which they were very anxious, as they had heard nothing further from Jim Nestor.
“The mine may have been taken away from him for all we know,” chafed Jerry as he fretted at the delay caused by bad roads.
“We’ll hope for the best,” said Ned. “No use crossing a bridge until you come to it.”
The travelers were well up among the lower mountains now, though compared with the heights they had still to scale the range was one of mere hills. One evening just at dusk, after a particularly hard day of travel, during which the auto had broken down several times, necessitating minor repairs, the Motor Boys came to a place where two roads divided.
“I wonder which we had better take?” asked Bob, who was at the wheel.
“The right,” said Jerry.
“The left,” advised Ned.