road between high
banks covered with loose stones, and overhead, a fringe of pine boughs.
It looked like a colored photograph thrown from a stereopticon in a
darkened theater.

From the back of the car the voice of the owner said briskly: "We will
now sing that beautiful ballad entitled 'He Is Sleeping in the Yukon
Vale To-night.' What are you stopping for, Fred?" he asked.

The tone of the chauffeur suggested he was again upon the defensive.

"For water, sir," he mumbled.

Miss Forbes in the front seat laughed, and her brother in the rear
seat, groaned in dismay.

"Oh, for water?" said the owner cordially. "I thought maybe it was for
coal."

Save a dignified silence, there was no answer to this, until there came
a rolling of loose stones and the sound of a heavy body suddenly
precipitated down the bank, and landing with a thump in the road.

"He didn't get the water," said the owner sadly.

"Are you hurt, Fred?" asked the girl.

The chauffeur limped in front of the lamps, appearing suddenly, like an
actor stepping into the limelight.

"No, ma'am," he said. In the rays of the lamp, he unfolded a road map
and scowled at it. He shook his head aggrievedly.

"There OUGHT to be a house just about here," he explained.

"There OUGHT to be a hotel and a garage, and a cold supper, just about
here," said the girl cheerfully.

"That's the way with those houses," complained the owner. "They never
stay where they're put. At night they go around and visit each other.
Where do you think you are, Fred?"

"I think we're in that long woods, between Loon Lake and Stoughton on
the Boston Pike," said the chauffeur, "and," he reiterated, "there
OUGHT to be a house somewhere about here--where we get water."

"Well, get there, then, and get the water," commanded the owner.

"But I can't get there, sir, till I get the water," returned the
chauffeur.

He shook out two collapsible buckets, and started down the shaft of
light.

"I won't be more nor five minutes," he called.

"I'm going with him," said the girl, "I'm cold."

She stepped down from the front seat, and the owner with sudden
alacrity vaulted the door and started after her.

"You coming?" he inquired of Ernest Peabody. But Ernest Peabody being
soundly asleep made no reply. Winthrop turned to Sam. "Are YOU
coming?" he repeated.

The tone of the invitation seemed to suggest that a refusal would not
necessarily lead to a quarrel.

"I am NOT!" said t