CHAPTER XV.
THIRST—AND A PLOT.
While the lads in the auto were thus discussing the doleful prospect ahead of them, Frank and Harry were making good time through the upper air on the run toward Cow Wells, which they had noted on their maps as the spot by which they would stop for refreshment. As they neared it in due time, from a distance of a mile away they noted its desolate appearance.
“There doesn’t seem to be much of anything there,” remarked Frank, as he looked ahead of him at the collection of ramshackle buildings that they knew from their observations must be Cow Wells.
“I don’t see a soul moving,” declared Harry.
“Neither do I,” was the other lad’s response. “Maybe they are all away at a festival or something.”
“Well, we’ll get water there, anyhow,” remarked Frank. “I’m so thirsty I could drink a river dry.”
“Same here.”
As the boys neared it, the lifeless appearance of Cow Wells became even more marked. The timbers of the houses had baked a dirty gray color in the hot sun, and what few buildings had been painted had all faded to the same neutral hue. The pigment had peeled off them under the heat in huge patches.
Of all the towns the boys had so far encountered on their transcontinental trip, this was the first one, however small, in which there had not been a rush of eager inhabitants to see the wonderful aeroplane.
“They must be all asleep,” laughed Harry; “here, we’ll wake them up.”