“No, I don’t know of any place,” the girl translated gran’maw to us, shutting the door.
“Of all churlish towns!” we said, left on the doorstep. But it was not a just criticism. We had simply crossed the line where west is east, where a stranger is perforce a suspicious character. Back in New England would we have let in two strange women after midnight? Their asking to come in would have been proof presumptive they were either criminal or crazy.
Our duel lost we drew up the old lady in a gutter under some dripping elms, and lay down to a belated sleep among the baggage,—Toby in one seat, I in another. In a twinkling we sat up, refreshed, to broad daylight and a shining morning sky. Our first thought was to search for the car’s internal injuries, fearing greatly they might prevent us going further. There were none. Two tumors the size of a large potato on our front tire revealed the cause of the noise. The marvel was that the tire had not collapsed as a finishing touch to last night’s dismal story. Luck, in its peculiar way, was again with us.
While we changed to our last spare tire, Toby straightened up for a moment, and suddenly broke into a bitter, sardonic laugh. “Will you look at that!” she said, pointing overhead.
Directly above our patient car a large, brightly painted sign flapped energetically in the clearing breeze. It read, in letters a yard high, “Welcome to Orland!”
Transcriber’s Notes:
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.
Variations in spelling and hyphenation are retained.
Perceived typographical errors have been changed.