“Yes. I thought from the way things were going we might need it more to-morrow than to-day.”
There was a general smacking of lips as the flask went around. Then they paused and looked at the house.
“Well,” observed Beveridge, “I'm not sure that I want to be told where we are—but here goes!” And he walked slowly toward the kitchen door, sweeping his eyes about the farmyard and taking in all that could be seen in the darkness. At his knock there was a noise in the kitchen,—the sound of a chair scraping,—and the door was opened a very little way.
“How are you?” began the special agent.
The farmer, for it was he who blocked the doorway, merely looked suspiciously out.
“We're a camping party, Mr.—Mr.—”
“Lindquist's my name.” His voice was thin and peevish, a fit voice for such a thin, small man.
“—Mr. Lindquist, and we seem to have lost our way. Can you take us in and give us a little something to eat?”
“Why, I don't know's I could. How many is there of you?”
“Four.”