Then he sat down on the old carriage block where they used to stand the milk cans and waited.

He felt rather foolish waiting there and he wondered what he should do if a big car with the number 50792 and an eagle on it should really come along....
The night was pitch dark; somewhere in the lonely woods hard by the screech owl was still calling, and the brisk autumn wind, freshening as the night advanced into the wee hours, conjured up strange noises in the loose hanging sticks of the old ramshackle fence along the roadside.
Dried leaves, driven by the fitful gusts of wind, sounded like someone, or some _thing_, hurrying by.
Now, indeed, Peter's fine hopes melted away as he waited there in the darkness.

To be sure, this was a main road, as likely a route as any thereabouts for autos, and in the daytime many passed there.

But as he waited now in the deep, enveloping night, and heard no sound save the haunting voices caused by the wind and the low, monotonous singing of the forest life, it seemed unthinkable that any thrilling sequel of his singular experience in his little room could occur.

Everything was the same as usual, the crickets chirping, the owl calling, the little graveyard down the road wrapped in darkness....