“Don’t look for trouble,” warned Mrs. Bonnell.
Laden with their parcels and bundles containing mostly food, for they intended to have a substantial lunch in the woods, they trudged on. Mrs. Bonnell industriously blazed the trail as they proceeded, though it was scarcely necessary, for the path seemed often used.
“But we may be able to see the white blaze of the wood in the dark,” she insisted.
“Oh, if we could only bribe a few lightning bugs to stay on each chipped-off place,” suggested Marie, “we could easily pick out the path then.”
They laughed at her quaint conceit, and proceeded. The way was easier than the first one they had essayed, and they made better time. In the distance they had occasional glimpses of farmhouses set down in some hollow. Farmhouses of an ancient régime, it seemed, since the land about them was little tilled now. There were only small gardens, not prolific ones at that.
They came from the path out upon a country road, with many and deep ruts in its dirt surface.
“We are to keep along this for half a mile, and then take the path to the right,” read Marie from the written directions that had not been forgotten this time.
“Oh, there’s an old well sweep, and I’m sure there must be an old oaken bucket going with it!” cried Mabel. “I must have a drink,” and she started toward the gate of a farmhouse they were approaching.
“The germ-covered bucket!” murmured Alice. “I’d rather have a tin pail.”
As they reached the gate a yellow cur rushed out at them, barked vociferously and interspersing his disapproval with snarls of anger.