Joe, in his abstraction, was
sounding his siren in a most insulting manner.
At last Windomshire's wheels struck a surface that seemed hard and
resisting. He gave a shout of joy.
"Here we are! It's macadam!"
"Cobberly Road," cried Joe. "Back off to the right and let me run in
ahead. I'm--I'm in a devil of a hurry."
"By Gad, sir, so am I. Hi, hold back there! Look out where you're
going, confound you!"
"Now for it," cried Joe to Eleanor. "We've got the lead; I'll bet a
bun he can't catch us." He had deliberately driven across the other's
bows, as it were, scraping the wheel, and was off over Cobberly Road
like the wind. "Turn to your right at the next crossing," he shouted
back to Windomshire. Then to himself hopefully: "If he does that,
he'll miss Fenlock by three miles."
They had covered two rash, terrifying miles before a word was spoken.
Then he heard her voice in his ear--an anxious, troubled voice that
could scarcely be heard above the rushing wind.
"What will we do if the train is late, dear? He'll be--be sure to
catch us."
"She's never late. Besides, what if he does catch us? We don't have to
go back, do we? You're of age.
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