“No moon till late—that’s a fac’, ma’am,” said the blacksmith, leaning on the mud-guard while Neale lit the lamps.
“And have we got to go back over that rocky piece of road to get to the Tailtown Pike?” asked Agnes, trying to study out the lost route in the guide book.
“It’s forty-five miles to Tailtown, where we were going to stop. And over the meanest roads in the State, I bet,” growled Neale.
“Dear me!” sighed Ruth.
“There are some objections to touring the country roads in an automobile,” admitted Mrs. Heard. “And things seemed to be going so smoothly!”
“I dunno what you’ll do,” drawled the blacksmith. “’Nless you talk to mother.”
“To whom?” chorused the older girls and the chaperone.
“Mother. Mebbe she kin advise ye,” drawled the man. “We live down the road jest a piece. I dunno what she’d say——”
“Does she know the roads better than you do?” asked Neale bluntly.
The blacksmith laughed mellowly. “I don’t reckon she does—’cept the road to Heaven, son,” he said. “She sure knows all about that. But she might be helpful. I’ve been takin’ her advice, off and on, for forty years, and whenever I’ve took it I’ve not been sorry.”