It was ten miles through the woods to the fork in the road where you took the right-hand-turn down to the wharf at Hungerford's Run, three miles further. Endless it seemed to Pen, the way the road twisted aimlessly first off in one direction, then back in the other. It was level for the most part except for once or twice when it precipitated them into a gully with a branch over which Pen had to jump. In spite of scurrying hoofs their net progress was slow. Dawn had broken before they came out on the open road. Pen dreading curious eyes urged them on as fast as she could.
She had one encounter. A farmer early at the plow, turned his team at the end of his furrow, just as Pen with her convoy passed in the road below. His jaw dropped; he all but rubbed his eyes at the strange spectacle of a modishly-dressed (to him) young lady covered with dust, driving a flock of sheep miles from anywhere. Pen did not know him, but he, by a process of elimination guessed who she must be. His face expressed a sort of agony of curiosity until the obvious explanation occurred to him, when it cleared.
"Driving your sheep to the steamboat?" he said.
"Yes," said Pen, blushing, and looking straight ahead.
He clambered over the fence, and slid down the bank to her side. "I just put up my clover last week," he said in friendly fashion. "Next field on the left. Drive 'em in and let 'em crop awhile. You got plenty time."
Pen thanked him. He walked beside her, glancing at her from the corners of his eyes. He opened a gate for her, and the grateful sheep scattered inside to their breakfast.
"Well it's more than I would have done. Why didn't you ride a hoss?"
"I'm going up on the boat," said Pen. "Had no way of getting the horse back. The dog can find his own way of course."
"Well, you're a good plucky young lady, I'll say ... You'll find a good spring down at the foot of the slope, yonder. How about some breakfast, I'll be going home to mine, directly."
"I brought it with me, thank you," said Pen, indicating the valise.
With many a backward look he returned to his horses, and Pen was free to wash at the spring, and brush her clothes.
Arriving at the dilapidated wharf a mile or so farther, she had to run a gauntlet of curious stares. Everybody wished to help her, and the sheep were quickly penned and tagged. Pen could see in the men's eyes what a storm of gossip would break loose once her back was turned, but she cared little about that.