On their left hand was the track of the railroad, and beyond that the moor rolling into low hills, toward the distant range of mountains.
There was not a vehicle of any sort in sight; and there were but two human beings besides themselves on the spot—one was the ticket agent and the other the railway porter.
Mr. Force spoke to the latter.
“Where can I get a carriage to take my party on to Angleton?”
The man, a red, shock-haired rustic, stared at the questioner a minute before answering.
“Noa whurr, maister, leaf it be at t’ Whoit Coo.”
“And where is the White Cow?” inquired the gentleman.
The rustic stretched his arm out and pointed due east.
Mr. Force strained his eyes in that direction, but at first could see nothing but the moor stretching out in the distance and rolling into hills as it reached the range of mountains.
“Papa,” said Wynnette, who was straining her eyes also, “I think I see the place. I know I see a curl of smoke and the top of a chimney, and the peak of a gable-end roof. I think the rise of the ground prevents our seeing more.”