They were in a pleasant country now, above Newburgh. Here the road runs between the Hudson and the Wallkill Rivers. The car jogged faithfully along, keeping up a sort of clanking lullaby except when it went over bad places when it raised its voice into a medley of squeaks and rattles like a traveling jazz band. Nothing seemed to surprise Townsend. He knew all the noises and the mysterious depths whence they emanated. They passed several rural garages, but at each one Townsend rocked the car and received a faint, splashing reassurance from below the seat that the gas was holding out. “We’ll get some at the next place,” he would say. So they traveled without mishap or adventure until dusk. Slowly the wooded hills changed color, patches of crimson lingered on the summits and faded and died away, leaving the heights in the solemn hue of the deepening twilight. And then the gathering darkness. It seemed as if the sturdy, clamorous, little flivver were all alone in the world, rattling merrily on as the mantle of night fell. The road wound like a ribbon through the dim country where miles and miles of vineyards border the way. High in the air a solitary bird soared through the darkening sky, imparting a suggestion of wildness and loneliness to the scene. Lights appeared in the few habitations which they passed. The voices of frogs could be heard in ponds and brooks, sending up their outlandish greetings to the night. Somewhere in the vast stillness an owl was hooting. It was the wistful hour of homesickness, if one is given to that, for in those solemn, changing hours nature seems to be drawing her cloak about her and withdrawing from human company. The merry little Ford rattled along, up hill and down dale and around bends, and was pretty good company. Say what you will, a Ford is a pretty good sport. CHAPTER X ADVENTURES WITH A FLIVVER—CONTINUED “Now we’re coming to a place,” said Townsend, as a brazen sign greeted them with the word GARAGE when they went around a bend. “Now we’ll give Liz her supper, hey, Liz.” “Y-kks,” said Liz. “You made it do that?” said Pee-wee astonished. “And at the next good place we’ll _all_ eat,” said Townsend. “We ought to be able to scare up a grove or something to camp in.” “I’m going to make a hunter’s stew,” said Pee-wee. “At your peril,” said Townsend; “I’m going to have an omelet, if anybody should ask you. That’s one great thing about the valve-in-head motor, you can beat eggs with the rocker arms. With a Ford you have to beat them by hand.” At the garage they were doomed to disappointment. The proprietor, wearing conspicuous suspenders and a straw hat as big as a parachute, told them that the gasoline wagon had not come along that day. He had not, it seemed, enough to take out a grease spot. “How far is Mideno, or whatever they call it?” Townsend asked.