"That house may be empty," said the Watermelon. "Then we would be all over there and have to come back." "We’ve been in empty houses before," said Henrietta crossly. "But what good would that do, to be over there without food?" asked the Watermelon. "What good to be here without gasolene?" retorted Henrietta. "I can not leave the car," reiterated the general. "Father," exclaimed the exasperated Henrietta, "some night I will find that you have taken the car to bed with you." "Suppose we leave the car here—" began the general argumentatively. "We can’t," sighed Henrietta. "Such a supposition would be impossible with you the owner of the car." The Watermelon laughed. "Aw, cut out the conversation," said he. "I will be right back." "So will I," said Billy. Now the Watermelon objected. He did not feel equal to a _tête-à-tête_ with the adorable Billy, adorable still, though a bit cross. "Cut out the conversation," mimicked Billy, and scrambled with more speed than grace under the broken bars of the worm-eaten fence. The Watermelon leaped the fence after her. Henrietta slipped under the fence after the Watermelon. Bartlett hesitated one moment, glanced guiltily at the deserted general and then followed Henrietta. Billy and the Watermelon were young and light of foot and soon outdistanced the stout Bartlett, who did his gallant best to keep up with the nimble Henrietta, but found that the years of good living told against him. Henrietta waited politely for him at the stone wall which Billy had just scaled and the Watermelon jumped. "What are we hurrying for?" asked Bartlett, removing his hat to wipe his heated brow. "I am sure I don’t know," laughed Henrietta. "Monkey see, monkey do, I suppose. That is why there is such a thing as style. No one thinks." "If we waited here," suggested Bartlett, "our dinner would come to us." "As the office to the man," agreed Henrietta. "Precisely." Henrietta sat down on the wall and Bartlett leaned beside her, gazing over the field to the distant woods. He felt thoroughly comfortable and contented. No matter what happened now, Batchelor could not reach the city by Saturday. The cotton ring was saved. The scene before them was a typical Maine landscape, rugged, hilly, beautiful, with the long shadows of approaching evening creeping across the fields. From where they rested, the farm seen from the road was hidden from sight. The whole place seemed desolate, primeval, with a beauty and a charm that were all its own.