For half an hour the sleepy Toby and I wrestled with the problem of where we now were, how far from our starting point, from our destination, from our last checking up,--till we feared for our reason. Like a ballad refrain, we went seven miles south and thirteen west,--but instead of a town met a pine forest. So, a few miles more or less meaning nothing to us, we threw in several to the north and a couple east, with the same unpromising result. At the rate we were going, I expected to reach either the Gulf of Mexico or the Pacific Ocean by morning. Once we heard the whirr of a mighty engine over our heads,--some belated airman, lost like ourselves doubtless in the rain above us. If anything could have made us feel lonelier than we had, it would have been this evidence of an unseen neighbor who shared the night and the storm with us. We came to another house. I stopped the car. Neither of us moved. “I went last time,” I said pointedly. “Huh-yah-yah,” protested Toby, but I did not yield, because I had fallen asleep. She wearily tottered out to the house, and brought back a Hoosier farmer with her, who fastened his suspenders as he came. “You’re some out of your way,” he said, unnecessarily, “but five east and eight south you’ll find a small hotel where you can spend the night.” “Is it all right?” I asked dubiously. “Well,” he considered, “being a neighbor, I don’t like to say. You might like it better at Orland, seven miles further.” We decided on Orland and slushed along in mud so thick we could hardly hold the wheel stiff. Suddenly we heard an ominous sound,--a steady thump, thump, thump. I got out in the downpour and looked at the tires. They were hard. I peered at the engine. It purred with a mighty purr. So I climbed in again, and we started hopefully; again came the heavy thumping, a sound fit to rack a car into bits. However, as the engine still functioned we decided to go as long as we could, though the noise struck terror to our hearts. We were too weary and wet to wallow in the mud and dark, investigating engine troubles. I drove cautiously, and after what seemed hours we reached Orland. The thumping now had become violent, but we didn’t care. A roof and a bed were practically within our grasp. It was a neat little town with white buildings and shady trees. Had we been motoring through on a sunny afternoon we might have said, “What a sweet place!” But we were too tired for æsthetic appreciation. Across the street was a large, comfortable white hotel, with broad hospitable porch. We hastened to rap on the door.