“It’s south of here, about a mile and a half,” said the tramp. “ ’Tisn’t a very good road, though.”
“That won’t keep us back,” declared Tom, and once more they were on the way. The runabout was doing fairly well in spite of the handicap of two stripped gears.
Cherry Valley was rather a sparsely settled part of the country and as Tom and his friends advanced they noticed that it grew more and more deserted. They passed one ramshackle farmhouse and learned, on inquiry, that they were headed right for the old Smith homestead.
“But they don’t nobody live there now, mister,” said a slattern of a woman who shuffled to the door in response to Tom’s knock. “They ain’t been nobody livin’ in the Smith place nigh onto four years now.”
“That’s all right—we’ll find it I guess,” responded the young inventor, and once more he drove his electric car onward.
Near the end of the valley and adjoining a patch of dense woods, they came upon the Smith house. It had once been the home of a prosperous farmer, but he had fallen upon evil days and the place had long been deserted.
“That’s it!” cried Mr. Damon, catching sight of the old brick house. “There it is, three cherry trees, old stone well, and everything just as Ned described it.”
“Hush, please! Not so loud!” begged Tom, slowing up his car and guiding it behind a clump of trees not far from the house. “If we’re going to make a rescue it might be well to take these kidnappers by surprise.”
“Bless my ear trumpet, I never thought of that!” whispered the odd man. “Of course! Certainly! Yes! Quiet does it!”
“Can you use a gun?” asked Tom curtly of the tramp.