“How do you boys like it?” asked Mr. Wakefield at the table. “Do you think you can stand it as far as Chicago?”
They were all sure they could run the machine to San Francisco, if necessary, and Mr. Wakefield and his friend laughed at their enthusiasm.
“We have come about seventy miles without a mishap,” said Mr. Wakefield, “but there are many miles ahead of us yet.”
After a short rest the journey was again taken up, and throughout the afternoon the autos were speeded along. The way was through a pleasant country, and the boys enjoyed the scenery and fresh air. Several times they stopped at farmhouses to get drinks of cold milk, and once a motherly-looking woman filled the boys’ pockets with newly baked doughnuts that were delicious.
“We’ll spend the night in Norwich, Conn.,” said Mr. Wakefield, when the two autos were ready to start, after a momentary stop at a farmhouse.
“Norwich—Norwich! I know Norwich!” exclaimed Andy. “I saw it in a book once—years ago—I was a little fellow—man in the moon came down too soon to inquire the way to Norwich—went by the south—burnt his mouth—eating cold bean porridge!”
“You remember your nursery rhymes well,” said Mr. Wakefield, with a laugh, in which all joined.
On and on chugged the autos. The afternoon waned to dusk and frequent signboards told that the distance from Norwich was constantly lessening. Mr. Wakefield was about half a mile in advance, on a straight, level road. Suddenly came a sound as of a pistol shot.
“Tire busted!” exclaimed Jerry, shutting off the power. Mr. Wakefield heard the noise and turned back.
“Accident?” he inquired.