“Where have you been?” inquired Grandma Padgett.
“Over on t'other road,” replied Zene, indicating the direction with his whip, “huntin' you folks. I knowed you hadn't made the right turn somehow.”
Grandma Padgett mentioned her experience with the Dutch landlord and the ford, both of which Zene had avoided by taking another cross-road that he had neglected to indicate to them. He said he thought they would see the wagon-track and foller, not bein' fur behind. When he discovered they were not in his train, he was in a narrow road and could not turn; so he tied the horses and walked back a piece. He got on a corn-field fence and shouted to them; but by that time there was no carriage anywhere in the landscape.
“Such things won't do,” said Grandma Padgett with some severity.
“No, marm,” responded Zene humbly.
“We must keep together,” said the head of the caravan.
“Yes, marm,” responded Zene earnestly.
“Well, now, you may drive ahead and keep the carriage in sight till it's dinner-time and we come to a good place to halt.”
Bobaday said he believed he would get in with Zene and try the wagon awhile. Springs and cushions had become tiresome. He half-stood on the tongue, to bring his legs down on a level with Zene's, and enjoyed the jolting in every piece of his backbone. He had had a surfeit of woman-society. Even the horsey smell of Zene's clothes was found agreeable. And above all, he wanted to talk about J. D. Matthews, and tell the terrors of a bottomless ford and a house with a strange-sounding cellar.
“But the man was the funniest thing,” said Bobaday. “He just talked poetry all the time, and Grandma said he was daft. I'd like to talk that way myself, but I can't make it jee.”