"The way you came in."
Realizing that I could get no information from this uncivil being, I pushed the starter—not a sound. I got out and cranked the engine—not a kick. I looked into my gas tank—not a drop!
"Where is the nearest gas station?" I demanded.
"I don't know—I burn kerosene," was the terse reply; and the man turned and entered the house.
I tried to recall the last gas station I had passed, and realized it must have been all of fifteen miles behind. It was now growing dark. I climbed into the car to think of a way out of my awkward situation, but all I could think of was that there were sound reasons for abandoned farms. Then I got to wondering who this queer character was and why he was living here.
As I had slept but little the night before, I must have dozed off, for the next thing I knew, a voice was saying: "Supper is ready."
I got out of the car and followed the man through a dark hall into a large, low room, at one end of which a fire was burning briskly in a huge stone fireplace. In the center of the room was a table where we sat down to a dinner of delicious hot biscuits and a great pot of honey.
"These biscuits are fine," I said.
"They are."
I ate another in silence. "And the honey is exquisite."