Jerry did not answer, for just ahead of them the road forked and he was trying to remember which turn it was one took to get to the bridge. He had never gone this way, but he had once heard a farmer giving directions to a party of automobilists. However, Phil unhesitatingly took the branch that cut in toward the river, so he said nothing for some time.
"Ever been over this road before?" he ventured to ask when the road suddenly became so rough that they stumbled at every step.
"No—never been up this way. We always fish on the other side of the
Plum."
"How do you know then that this is the right road?"
"It turned in toward the river, didn't it? And the other road angled off toward Tarryville."
"But the bridge road is graveled all the way, and if this isn't blue clay I'll eat my hat. It might just be a private road to some farm, and the other road might have swung around after a bit. This muck-hole doesn't look good to me."
"All the same, through those trees yonder I can see water. It's the old
Plum all right. Shake a leg."
"I think we'll gain time by shaking two legs—back to the fork. That's the Plum, all right enough, but you'll walk through marsh all the way to the bridge if you try to follow the bank. I remember now: this is the old wood road. It hasn't been used since they cut timber on the Jameson tract."
Jerry did not wait to finish his argument but had already gone back a good fifty feet of the way to the other road, when he noticed that Phil was not following him.
"What's the matter, Phil?"