Ben was mystified. “What sort of adventure?” he asked.
“Well, what would you say to hunting for hooked-rugs?”
“Hooked-rugs?” Ben laughed; he was now so much amused at Roderick Fitzhugh’s company that he wanted to see more of him. “Do they grow on bushes?”
“No. They grow in these thrifty Yankee cottages. I’ll tell you where to go.”
Ben started the engine and drove on. At his companion’s direction he soon turned into a by-road that led westward.
Roderick Fitzhugh nodded toward a cottage, in the yard of which a woman was scattering grain to a flock of chickens. “There is a likely-looking hunting-ground,” he said. “Please stop when you come to the gate. I will exchange a few words with this respectable lady.”
The car stopped, making its customary noise of clattering tinware as Ben put on the brake. The woman looked round, and in the usual neighborly fashion of farmers walked over to the gate.
“Morning,” she said.
“Good morning to you, Madam,” responded Roderick Fitzhugh. “You have a fine flock of hens.”
“Yes,” she said, looking at the man in the green clothes as if she didn’t know exactly what to make of him.