For a mile or so the road was deserted. But presently, on making a turn, the Bobbseys saw coming toward them a farmer, driving a bony horse drawing a rickety old wagon.
“Hello there!” called Mr. Bobbsey, halting his car.
“Whoa—up!” the man directed his horse, and the animal seemed glad enough to stop. “Afternoon, stranger,” greeted the farmer. “Are you looking for some one?”
“I’m looking for the road to Midvale, so I can get to Hitchville,” explained Mr. Bobbsey. “Or perhaps you know of a short cut to Hitchville.”
The farmer shook his head.
“No, there isn’t any short cut,” he said. “You’ll have to go to Midvale, as that’s the only place where there’s a bridge over the river within ten miles. But you’re ’way off the road to Midvale, even—’way off!”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” commented Mr. Bobbsey. “What shall I do?”
The farmer considered matters for a moment and then replied:
“Well, if I was you I’d keep right on this road until you get to the next highway. Turn to the right there and keep on for about five miles and you’ll come to the road that takes you to Midvale. After that you’ll be all right.”
“Yes, after that I’ll be all right,” agreed Mr. Bobbsey. “But how about this road and the next—are they pretty good?”