“It will take us almost as long to go by auto as it would to walk across through the woods,” said Garry, “for this is a mighty roundabout way; but it will be easier than walking, and I think we all have earned a little rest.”
“If you don’t mind a little bumping occasionally,” said the chauffeur, “I can get you to Hobart in about two hours; but it’s over a long stretch of road that is hardly more than a lane.”
The party was unanimously agreed on preferring the bumps to the extra time, and accordingly the driver changed his direction and took a course that led him to what seemed to be nothing more than an abandoned tote road.
The driver spoke the truth when he said it might be a little bumpy.
“Whew!” said Garry, as he was lifted almost a foot out of his seat and came back with a thud that jarred nearly every bone in his body. “I’m beginning to think that we are getting more than we bargained for.”
“I told you there were a few bumps,” said the driver, grinning.
“You’re right,” declared Simmons, “only it seems that we are missing the road altogether and just jumping from bump to bump.”
“Never mind,” consoled Ruth, as she hung on to the side of the tin chariot. “We are getting to Hobart all the quicker.”
Finally they struck decent road again, and the driver stepped on the gas and fairly made the car fly over the road.
When they reached the outskirts of the little village, Ruth directed them to Aunt Abbie’s house, and in a few moments she and her grandfather were clasped in each other’s arms. Good old Aunt Abbie was fluttering around, alternately patting Ruth on the shoulder and then Garry.