"No, ma'am," he said. In the rays of the lamp, he unfolded a road map and scowled at it. He shook his head aggrievedly.
"There OUGHT to be a house just about here," he explained.
"There OUGHT to be a hotel and a garage, and a cold supper, just about here," said the girl cheerfully.
"That's the way with those houses," complained the owner. "They never stay where they're put. At night they go around and visit each other. Where do you think you are, Fred?"
"I think we're in that long woods, between Loon Lake and Stoughton on the Boston Pike," said the chauffeur, "and," he reiterated, "there OUGHT to be a house somewhere about here—where we get water."
"Well, get there, then, and get the water," commanded the owner.
"But I can't get there, sir, till I get the water," returned the chauffeur.
He shook out two collapsible buckets, and started down the shaft of light.
"I won't be more nor five minutes," he called.
"I'm going with him," said the girl, "I'm cold."