I kept on this for perhaps three miles further without passing a house, and then came to a low rambling structure half hidden among a grove of ancient overhanging trees. It was near lamp-lighting time and I was puzzled to know whether the place was deserted or not. I turned my car in toward the house, bumped over loose rocks—and my engine died.
A man appeared on the porch. He was lanky in build, a little stooped, apparently about forty years of age, and was dressed in a blue flannel shirt and a pair of corduroy trousers.
"Can you tell me how far it is to New York?" I asked.
"Yes."
"How far is it?"
"About a hundred miles as the crow flies."
"But how far is it by automobile?"
"I don't know," replied the man, who seemed to be better posted on crow flights than auto travel.
He offered no further remarks, but stood there indifferently eyeing the car.
Curbing my annoyance I inquired: "How do I get out to a good automobile road?"