One of them, a lanky old farmer with a sunburned nose, carefully laid down his scythe, put his hand to his ear and shouted:
“Eh?”
“Did you see a fellow pass along here in a roadster?” Frank repeated, in a louder tone.
The farmer turned to his companions, removed a plug of tobacco from the pocket of his overalls and took a hearty chew.
“Lad here want to know if we saw a roadster come by here!” he said slowly.
There were three other farmhands and all gathered around. They put down their scythes very deliberately, and the plug of tobacco was duly passed around the group.
Frank waited.
“A roadster, eh?” asked one.
“A yellow roadster,” Frank told him.
One of the men removed his hat and mopped his brow.
“Seems to me,” he observed, “I did see a car come by here a while ago.”
“A yellow car?”
“No—twan’t a yeller car. It was a delivery truck, if I remember rightly.”
Frank strove to conceal his impatience.
“It was a roadster I was asking about. A yellow roadster.”
“Not one of them there coops, hey?” asked the oldest man in the group doubtfully.