“I CERTAINLY hope we don’t meet any more mean, tricky little kids,” soliloquized Tom, as the touring car rushed steadily ahead, each instant leaving the city of Kenosha further and further behind. “By George—the nerve of him! Well—the fellows will find out that when it comes to matching wits they haven’t much on me.”
Tom Clifton’s confidence had returned; the strange feeling of loneliness which at first had persisted in hanging over him, as well as the half-defined fear of something happening to the motor were rapidly being dispelled. The six cylinders, operating with perfect precision, sent off on the breeze their steady vibrating roar. Tom’s cheek was flushed with the excitement and novelty of his position. He seemed to have grown into man’s estate at a bound.
“I guess when I meet the yacht at Milwaukee I’ll have the laugh on the whole bunch,” he thought, with a cheerful grin.
The weather was still threatening. A stiff, cold breeze constantly blowing in his face made the goggles very acceptable indeed, and he had found it prudent to put on his heavier coat. Now and again he caught glimpses of Lake Michigan. Far out on the great body of agitated water he could see tossing whitecaps gleaming like silver against the gray background of choppy waves.
“Shouldn’t wonder if I got caught in an awful blow before long,” he said aloud, somewhat anxiously.
At times the route took him not far from the Chicago and Northwestern Railroad. Occasionally trains thundered by, their whistles sending shrieking blasts that died out in throbbing echoes over the dreary landscape.
Tom felt an almost irresistible impulse to throw on all power and race these defiant-looking iron monsters, but thoughts of the law and of sharp-eyed constables deterred him.
At length a village sprang into view ahead. On closer inspection it seemed to have the usual accompaniments of barking dogs, cackling geese, and countless chickens.
Only by the narrowest margin were several terrible casualties among the bird family averted that day. Tom’s heart beat fast with apprehension as a small army of geese, led by an ancient gander, suddenly swooped directly in the path of the oncoming machine.
The fierce yells of a blue-shirted man leaning against a fence did not help to ease his troubled spirit.
“Great Scott!”
The words broke impulsively from Tom’s lips, as, with frantic haste, he operated the steering wheel.
For an instant he expected to hear an awful cackling ringing in his ears. But the big touring car swerved sufficiently to clear the rear guard of frantically flying legs.
“By George! And never even ruffled a feather!” cried Tom, in great relief.
The village was quickly passed. On reaching a bend a stretch of almost straight road lay before him. The country looked very deserted and lonely. Here and there a house, far off in the fields, patches of trees, or the crooked line of a fence alone broke the monotonous landscape.
The temptation to “burn up the road” was too great to resist. Tom threw on power until the telegraph poles seemed to be literally hurling themselves through space toward him. He had certainly recovered his nerve, a fact on which he proudly congratulated himself.
But the thrills produced by the terrific speed were of no ordinary kind, causing him before long to slow down considerably.
“Gee! Now I’ve done it, I won’t do it again,” he muttered, with all the elation of a chauffeur who has captured a world’s record. “Awful risky, that! Maybe Bob Somers wouldn’t have opened his eyes. Hello—Racine!”
Beyond an open field houses were coming into view, and still further beyond several church spires pierced the lowering atmosphere.
At a moderate speed, Tom kept on, while evidences that a busy, thriving town lay ahead constantly increased. Before long the machine was rolling over a wide, pleasant avenue lined with houses set some distance apart, many having fine lawns in front.
As the character of the street changed so did Tom’s feelings. When the livelier sections of the city were reached nervousness once again had him in its grip. But, with firm determination, he mastered the tremors which, for a time, threatened to interfere with his manipulation of the steering wheel.
“Easy, boy—easy!” he counseled to himself.
The big machine was rounding a corner which reminded him of the one in Kenosha. “Main Street,” he read on a near-by sign.
“Pretty brisk, too,” murmured Tom. “Must be a busy time of day.”
Clang, clang, clang!
In response to the insistent warnings of a rapidly-approaching electric car he drew near the curb. Then a two-horse dray swung sharply off from the car tracks and compelled him to come to a stop.
Tom was just in the humor to call out gruffly:
“Hey, there! Where are you going?”
But the trolley car at that instant whizzed rapidly past, and the boy concluded, just in time to check the remark, that the driver of the dray was justified in his action.
This far from exciting incident was the only one which marked the passage of the motor car through the streets of Racine. Tom, however, drew a long, deep breath of relief when clanging gongs, blasts of automobile horns and the rattle of wagons were but a memory and the open country lay stretched once more before him.
In the middle distance the moisture-laden air seemed to dip down, and through this veil the views beyond were revealed in misty patches. Every minute it looked as if the scudding clouds would begin to dissolve themselves in torrents of driving rain. All vegetation glistened with cold gray reflections caught from above. Yet, as the motor car sent the mile-stones, one after another, slipping past, the expected did not happen.
“It will mighty soon, though, I’m thinking,” mused Tom. “By gum, this is rather lonely work. Houses ahead! Good! Signs of life out here are certainly scarce.”
It was a very pretty little village along the principal street of which the car presently rolled. He caught several glimpses of men working in fields; of others gathered in front of a store. They hailed him; he sent an answering salute; then, in a few moments, the last house had been reached and passed.
As the journey approached its end Tom Clifton’s impatience increased. Several times he drove the car for short stretches at a clip which almost rivaled his first daring attempt at speeding. Another village was passed, and then another. Some distance to his right an occasional column of rapidly-moving smoke or jets of steam marked the progress of north or south-bound trains.
“Easy job—I didn’t have any trouble finding the way,” grinned Tom. “One look at our road map was enough. By George; it’s a lucky thing, too, that I remember the place where Captain Bunderley said his motor yacht was always moored at Milwaukee. ‘Right by the East Water Street bridge, boys,’—those were his very words. She ought to have arrived by this time. And I know how to steer the machine there straight as a carrier pigeon scoots for home.”
The motor car was nearing an intersecting road. It bore an appearance strangely similar to numerous others passed that day, but whereas they had generally been deserted on this particular one he saw a small slight man of uncertain age sprinting toward him at a lively rate of speed.
“Hey there, young feller!” came the hail a second time.
In obedience to the authoritative summons, Tom slowed up, stopping just as the man, breathing hard, reached the main road.