I pedaled on and at last found myself upon a country road.

I dared not ask my way, but luckily I had stumbled upon the highway to Port Washington, whence there was a ferry to the Connecticut shore.

As I stole along in the darkness, my ear caught far ahead a voice roaring out a ribald song--and I knew that the time had come to take personal charge of my wretched client-- the "old man of the sea" that my own stupidity had seated upon my shoulders.

Soon I overtook them, the Italian stolidly driving his weary horse and Hawkins sitting beside him with the sack wrapped around his shoulders.

I halted them, threw my bicycle in among the vegetables, and climbed up to where they sat.