“By Jove! Didn't we cross a stream an hour or so ago?” he cried.
“A horrid, splashy little stream? We crossed it long ago.”
“Well, we shouldn't have crossed it,” he said, ruefully. “I should have turned up the hill over the creek road. We're miles out of the way, Dorothy.”
“What shall we do?” she asked, with a brave show of dismay.
“I don't know. We're in a deuce of a pickle, don't you see?” he said.
“I can't say that I do see,” she said. “Can't we drive back to the creek?”
“We could if I could turn the confounded trap about. But how, in the name of heaven, can I turn on a road that isn't wide enough for two bicycles to pass in safety? Steep, unclimable hill on our left, deep ravine on our right.”
“And a narrow bit of a road ahead of us,” she said. “It looks very much as if the crooked and narrow path is the best this time.”
That narrow road seemed to have no end and it never widened. The driving at last became dangerous, and they realized that the tired horse was drawing them up a long, gradual slope. The way became steeper, and the road rough with rocks and ruts. Her composure was rapidly deserting her, and he was the picture of impatience.
“If we should meet anyone else driving, what would happen?” she asked, fearfully.