The Moving Picture Boys at Panama; Or, Stirring Adventures Along the Great Canal

By
1915
TO THE RESCUE
With a series of puffs and chugs a big, shiny motor cycle turned from the road into the graveled drive at the side of a white farmhouse. Two boys sat on the creaking saddles. The one at the front handle bars threw forward the clutch lever, and then turned on the power sharply to drive the last of the gases out of the twin cylinders.
The motor cycle came to a stop near a shed, and the two lads, swinging off, looked at each other for a moment.
Some ride, that! observed one. You had her going then, Blake!
Just a little, Joe—yes. It was a nice level stretch, and I wanted to see what she could do.
You didn't let her out to the full at that; did you?
I should say not! answered the one who had ridden in front, and guided the steed of steel and gasoline. She'll do better than ninety miles an hour on the level; but I don't want to ride on her when she's doing it.
Nor I. Well, it was a nice little run, all right. Funny, though, that we didn't get any mail; wasn't it?
It sure was. I think somebody must be robbing the post-office, for we ought to have had a letter from Mr. Hadley before this, and he laughed at his own joke.
Yes, agreed Joe, and I ought to have had one from—