There is no denying that the boys enjoyed the ride. More than once, they had watched enviously as Royal Sheffield dashed into Lakeville with his trim roadster; more than once, too, if the truth be known, they had lingered hungrily as he backed it out of Grady's barn after school and made ready for the homeward trip. But Sheffield lived in Charlesboro, and his motoring was done largely in the roads about that village. True, the Sefton automobile never had a vacant seat when any boy could be found to fit it; but Mr. Sefton used the car for business, and it was also frequently out of town. This was different, too; this was a cross-country jaunt, over unfamiliar roads, mile upon mile, with every turn and rise revealing new wonders.
"Like it?" asked Mr. Jenkins, without turning his head.
There was no adequate way of expressing their gratitude and pleasure, but the farmer seemed well content with Specs' explosive, "You bet we do!" It was curious about Mr. Jenkins. He owned the car, and he must have ridden thousands of miles in it; yet he seemed to be getting just as much fun out of this trip as any of his guests. "Haven't felt so young in thirty years," he said once, with a chuckle, as he swung wide to avoid a bump.
On and on sang the car: uphill, biting on second speed; across a bit of tableland, feeling its oats on high; down a long incline, pulsing with such eagerness that it had to be restrained; through wood roads, bowered with cool, overhanging trees; into the bright sunshine again; past farmhouses, with barking dogs and waving people; over long stretches of concrete, that gave back never a jounce or jolt; through sleepy little villages, waking and nodding a single welcome and good-by in one; out into the country once more, between green fields of sprouting corn and wheat; and on and on, motor humming drowsily and rubber-tired wheels crisping their chorus. It was good just to be outdoors on such a day in June.
They climbed a long, winding hill. At the top was a little cottage, bordered by a trim lawn, which was splashed here and there with gay flower plots. In the background loomed a barn, more than twice the size of the house, with a silo at one side and a windmill just beyond. Mr. Jenkins squinted meditatively from the spout of his radiator, steaming a bit, to the windmill.
"Reckon we'd better stop for water," he announced.
A gray, bent wisp of a man answered his knock on the door and listened gravely to his request for the loan of a pail. He seemed to be looking, not at Mr. Jenkins, but through him, as if he were only vaguely aware of the other's presence. But he said, "Oh, yes," and brought the pail.
It took only a minute to fill the radiator. Mr. Jenkins began to screw on the cap, while the boys piled back into the car. Bunny picked up the pail and carried it to the house. As he lifted his hand to knock on the door, he heard something that made him hesitate.
Inside the house, a woman was crying softly, and a man's voice was soothing, over and over, "Now, Ma! Now, Ma! Don't take on so! It can't be helped! Now, Ma! Now, Ma!"
After a moment of indecision, Bunny rapped. The sobbing stopped. Footsteps approached the door, and presently it was opened, a little hesitatingly, by the man from whom Mr. Jenkins had borrowed the pail. Bunny extended it to him, with a word of thanks. He had meant to turn away at once, but something seemed to hold him.