“No more,” declared the small twins, and Mrs. Bobbsey looked to make sure no stray puppy had crawled in among the things.
Perhaps, because Mr. Bobbsey was in a hurry to make up the time and distance lost by returning to the farmhouse, he missed a side road altogether, or perhaps it was because he took a wrong turn at some crossroad in the journey, but certain it was that, late in the afternoon when he came to a signboard and read the names of the towns printed on it, he said:
“We must have come the wrong way.”
“What do you mean?” asked his wife.
“We aren’t on the road to Hitchville,” was the answer. “To get there we have to pass through Midvale, and this sign doesn’t say anything about that place. I must have taken a wrong turn.”
“It is getting late, too,” remarked his wife.
“No harm is done, though,” said Mr. Bobbsey. “I will ask the first person I meet which is the best road to Midvale. Once we are there, I can easily find the way to Hitchville.”
“Shall we get there to-night?” asked Nan.
“Why, of course we shall,” declared her father.
As a matter of fact, he concluded later that he was not as sure of this as he wished he could be. But there was only one thing to do, and that was to go on until they met another autoist or some one of whom they could inquire.