“Say, Mister! How far is it to the nearest town on this road?”
“Ten mile, I reckon. We live three miles beyond.”
As the car started Phil waved a hand from the auto, whereat a white handkerchief fluttered back an answering signal.
Dave turned back to Way, saying:
“Blame if I don’t believe you’ve made a regular mash on that girl—hey, Paul?” Paul, now at the wheel, was too busy to reply.
“Wonder what they were doing so far from home with a load of hay?” said Dave.
“It’s past haying time now,” was Worth’s comment. “Must be taking it off somewhere to sell. If so, that explains why the girl was dressed so nicely.”
“How about the man and boy?” asked Paul. “They looked like real hayseeds.”
“How’d you want ’em to look?” This from Dave. “When you’re selling hay you can’t load or unload in your Sunday go-to-meeting clothes.”
“Well,” remarked Phil, “whoever and whatever they are, we tried to be decent to them. I reckon they’re all right.”