Perched on one of the lower branches of a wayside oak, Will Noggin was pointing a shaking finger in the direction he named.
We were less than three miles from Bloodstock when the off hind tire burst. Miss Deriot brought the car to the side of the road and stopped in the shadow of an old barn.
"That," she said, "has just done it."
I opened the door and stepped down into the road.
"It means a delay when we least want it," said I ruefully.
"Worse. I've had one burst already, and I only brought one spare wheel."
I whistled.
"Then we are indeed done," said I. "I'm awfully sorry. Heaven knows how far you are from your home. This comes of helping a comparative stranger. Let it be a lesson to you."
My companion smiled.