“What will you do then?” asked Clint.

“Foot it to Wharton, I guess.  Maybe I can find a telephone this side somewhere.”  He reflected.  “I guess there’s one at Maxwell’s Stock Farm about three miles from here.  I’ll get Bumstead in Wharton to send out and tow me in.”

“That’s all right for you,” said Amy, “but what are we supposed to do?”

“Guess you’ll either have to foot it or wait till someone comes along.  Sorry, but I didn’t know that wheel was thinking of leaving.”

“Do you reckon there’ll be someone along?” asked Clint.

“Sure to be sooner or later.”

“We’ll get ‘sooner or later’ if we’re not back at school in time for supper,” murmured Amy.  “Guess we’d better hike along, Clint.  How far is Wharton from here?”

“About five miles, by road,” said the youth.  “Maybe less if you cross over there and hit the trolley line.  Say, if you get over there you might catch a car.  What time is it?”

“Just five-three,” answered Clint.

“Oh, well, then there won’t be one along for most a half-hour.  That’ll be your shortest way, though.”

“We’ll never get back before six,” said Clint.

“More likely eight,” replied Amy.  “Well, it can’t be helped.  We might as well make the best of it.  What are you going to do?”

The driver of the automobile looked up the road and down.  “I might go back and look for that nut,” he muttered, “or I might go on to Maxwell’s, or I might stay here and wait for someone to come along.  Guess I’ll wait a while.”

“Well, we’ve got to beat it,” said Amy.  “Sorry about your car.  Is there anything we can do if we ever reach Wharton?”

The youth shook his head philosophically.  “No, I’ll get word to Bumstead before you get there, I guess.  Much obliged.  I’m sorry I got you into such a fix, fellows.  I meant well.”  He grinned broadly.

“That’s all right,” Clint replied.  “It wasn’t your fault.  Good-bye.  Straight across that field there, you say?  How far is it to the trolley?”

“About half a mile, I guess.  You’ll see the poles pretty quick.  Good-bye, fellows.  Hope you get home all right.  So long.”

CHAPTER VII

LOST!

It was all well enough for the automobile driver to tell them go straight across the field, but it was quite another thing to do it, for there was a broad and deep stream in the middle of it and no sign of a bridge anywhere in sight.  There was nothing to do but follow the stream in the general direction of Wharton until they could reach the trolley line.  That brook wound in a most exasperating manner, finally heading back toward where they supposed the dirt road to be.  Amy stopped and viewed it disgustedly.

“I’m going to wade it,” he declared.

But Clint persuaded him against that plan, pointing out that he would be extremely uncomfortable riding on the trolley car with his clothes soaking wet.  Amy grumblingly agreed to give the stream another chance to behave itself.  By that time they had been walking fully fifteen minutes and the scene of the accident was lost to sight and as yet there was no trace of the trolley line.  Clint looked at his watch.