“I can’t find the string,” said Malcolm. “We’ll just have to hold the sack by the corners. Come on and let’s get away from here.”
“All right, but which way shall we go?” asked Rob.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter; any old way. What’s that?”
It was the shriek of a distant locomotive. They turned toward the sound.
“Well, that proves that the railroad is in that direction,” said Malcolm. “Let’s head that way.”
“All right,” Rob answered, “but that train may be at Engle or it may be ten miles north. Still, one way’s as good as another. Come along. If we meet that bull, though, I tell you right now that I shall drop this tin shop and run like thunder!”
They went on across the meadow through the fog which, instead of decreasing, seemed to thicken as evening drew near. They may have traversed a quarter of a mile of meadow or it may have been twice that distance, but at last a row of trees loomed out of the grayness ahead. The trees proved to be growing along a fence and on the other side of the fence was a country road. Rob seated himself on a rock and wiped his face with a damp handkerchief.
“Well, here we are,” he said.
“Where?” scoffed Evan.