The Flyers | Page 8

Suddenly the "honk, honk!" of an invisible motor struck upon their
tense ears, the sound coming from some point ahead in the black,
narrow lane. Dauntless sat straight and peered ahead, sounding his horn
sharply.
"I hope no one is coming toward us," he groaned, slowing up sharply.
"We never can pass in this confounded lane. If we get off into the soft
ground--Hello! Here he comes--and no lights either! Hey! Look out!"
He brought his car to an abrupt standstill.
"Where are we, Joe?" she cried.
"Near the crossroads, I'm sure. Curse an idiot that runs around without
lights on a night like this," he growled, forgetting that his own lamps
were dark.
Out of the misty blackness loomed another car, directly ahead. It had
come to a sudden stop not ten feet away. Both cars were tooting their
horns viciously.
"Where are your lights?" roared Dauntless.
"Where are yours?" came back angrily through the fog.
"Good Lord!" gasped Joe, panic-stricken.

"It's Mr. Windomshire," whispered Eleanor, in consternation.
Before she realised what was happening her companion lifted her
bodily over the back of the seat and deposited her in the bed of the
tonneau.
"Hide, dearest," he whispered. "Get under the storm blankets. He must
not see you! I'll--I'll bluff it out some way."
"Wha--what is he doing out here in a machine?" she was whispering
wildly. "He is pursuing us! He has found out!"
In the other car Windomshire--for it was the tall Englishman--was
hoarsely whispering to some one beside him:
"It's Dauntless! Hang him! What's he doing here?" Then followed a
hurried scuffling and subdued whispers. A long silence, fraught with an
importance which the throbbing of the two engines was powerless to
disturb, followed the mutual discovery. Joe's brain worked the quicker.
Disguising his voice as best he could, he shouted through the fog:
"We can't pass here."
"Is--is this Cobberly Road?" cried Windomshire, striving to obtain
what he considered the American twang.
"No, it's not. It's O'Brien's Lane."
Then, after a long silence, "Can't you back out?"
"It's rather--I mean sorter risky, mister. I don't know how far I'd have to
back, doncherknow--er, ahem!"
"The crossroads can't be more than a hundred yards behind you. Where
are you going?"
"I'm going for--a doctor," called Windomshire, hastily.
"Well, then, we ought not to stand here all night," groaned Joe, his ears

open to catch the sound of the locomotive's whistle. There was no time
to be lost.
"I'll--I'll try to back her out," shouted Windomshire. Eleanor whispered
something shrilly and anxiously from the tonneau, and Joe called out
instantly:
"Who is ill?"
"Mrs.--Mrs. Smith," replied the other, bravely.
"Good!" exclaimed Dauntless, heartily. Windomshire was not in the
least annoyed by the lack of sympathy. He began to drive his car
backward by jerks and jolts, blindly trusting to luck in the effort to
reach the road which he had passed in his haste a few minutes before.
Joe was shouting encouragement and pushing slowly forward in his
own machine. The noise of the engines was deafening.
"Hang it all, man, don't blow your horn like that!" roared Windomshire
at last, harassed and full of dread. 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. Brace up; be a man!" he called back
encouragingly.
"There are too many men as it is," she wailed, sinking back into the
tonneau.
"Here we are!" he shouted, as the car whizzed into a murky, dimly
lighted street on the edge of Fenlock, the county seat. "There are the
station lights just ahead."
"Is the train in?" she cried, struggling