“Diana,” said Lindquist, “you might give these young men some bread and milk.”
His wife laid aside her sewing without a word, and went to the pantry.
“Now,” began Beveridge, “I suppose we ought to find out where we are.”
“What's that?”
“Where are we, Mr. Lindquist? What's the nearest town?”
“The nearest town, you said?”
“Yes.”
“Why, Ramsey, I guess, or—”
“Or—what?”
“Or—Spencer's place.”