The car rolled on. While Jim made a vain post-mortem examination of the car's machinery Charity looked about for a guide-post. She found a large signboard proclaiming “Viewcrest Inn, 1 mile.” She told Jim.
He said: “I know of it. It has a bad name, but so long as the gasolene is good—I'll go get some. Make yourself at home.” He paused. “I can't leave you alone here in the wilderness at midnight.”
“I'll go along.”
“In those high-heeled shoes?”
“And these low-necked gown,” sighed Charity. “Oh, what a fool, what a stupid fool I've been!”
But she set forth. Jim offered his arm. She declined it at first, but she was glad enough of it later. They made an odd-looking couple, both in evening dress, promenading a country road. All the wealth of both of them was insufficient to purchase them so much as a street-car ride. They were paupers—the slaves, not the captains, of their fate. Charity stumbled and tottered, her ankles wrenched by the ruts, her stilted slippers going to ruin. Jim offered to carry her. She refused indignantly. She would have accepted a lift from any other vehicle now, but none appeared. The only lights were in the sky, where a storm was practising with fireworks.
“Just our luck to get drenched,” said Jim.
It was about the only bad luck they escaped, but the threat of it lent Charity speed. They passed one farm, whose dogs rushed out and bayed at them carnivorously.
“That's the way people will bark when they find out about our innocent little picnic,” said Charity.
“They're not going to find out,” said Jim.