rm
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