The touring car was soon passing between the gate-posts at the entrance.
“Now, where?” asked Pierre.
“Follow the river.”
George settled back on the cushioned seat with a sigh of contentment. The morning was pleasant, with enough air stirring to temper the heat; and the broad Hudson sparkled and gleamed between the trees like silver. Birds were singing and flitting about; a couple of red squirrels dashed frantically across the sunlit road, making for the nearest tree, and were soon lost to view amidst the foliage. It was all very pleasant and cheerful, and George’s shining eyes told of his enjoyment.
“How far we go?” asked the chauffeur, presently.
“Oh, a good way yet, Pierre; I’m bound for Albany.”
“Ma foi!” exclaimed the Frenchman, in great astonishment. “But why you not say that before we go wrong way?” and he brought the machine to a standstill.
“Oh, no, it’s all right, Pierre,” laughed George. “Keep straight ahead till I tell you to stop. I’m not going to the railroad station.”
“Oh, you take a boat, then?”
“Yes, a kind of one.”