Honk! Honk! The raucous note of Bob’s horn broke in upon his thoughts, and he glanced, startled, through the rear windows, to see the other car looming through the drifting storm.
Too late he tried frantically to speed up and avoid the humiliation of being passed by one whom he condescendingly termed an amateur. Resistless as fate the pursuing car drew abreast, and then went on past in a cloud of fine snow kicked up by the spinning rear wheels. He muttered morosely to himself as he caught a glimpse of grinning faces through the dim windows of the storm curtains, but was conscious of a feeling of admiration, too, for the daring young driver.
“Say, son, I’ve got to hand it to you!” exclaimed Jim, the injured chauffeur. “You know how to handle a car with the best of ’em.”
“Oh, I didn’t care so much about passing him, but I didn’t want to slow down,” explained Bob, never for an instant taking his eyes from the road. “It’s against my principles to put on brakes when I’m going up a hill.”
“I figure the same way myself,” admitted the other. “Now that we’re ahead, we might as well stay ahead. I’ll tell you which way to turn, an’ I guess between us we’ll get through all right.”
But many miles still lay between them and their destination, and the storm showed no sign of abating. Softly, silently, but implacably the white flakes continued to pile up that clinging carpet over the road until driving became more a matter of guesswork and instinct than anything else. For a time the injured chauffeur gave Bob directions and advice, but at length he came to the conclusion that this boy behind the wheel was very capable of doing the right thing in the right place, and he sat silent, gripping the seat and pressing on imaginary pedals when they got in tight places.
They were making good progress, considering the adverse conditions, and were within perhaps ten miles of their destination when suddenly, through the whirling snow, Bob glimpsed another car swinging into the main road not fifteen feet from him. Both cars were going at a fast speed, but the drivers caught sight of each other at almost the same instant, and both jammed on their brakes. The cars swayed and skidded, and the occupants of both started from their seats, believing a collision inevitable. Nothing could have averted this had not Bob, quick as lightning, wrenched his wheel around, bringing his car into a course almost parallel with the other. For a few brief seconds the outcome lay in the hand of fate. When the two cars finally came to a jarring halt, they were side by side, with not six inches between their running boards.
The door of the other car, which was a sedan, burst open, and a small, red-faced and white-haired man leaped out and shook a belligerent fist at Bob.
“What do you mean by driving that car at such a rate of speed?” he shrilled. “You were breaking every speed law there is, young man, and I’ll make you sorry for it, or my name isn’t Gilbert Salper.”
“But your car was going faster than ours, and there isn’t any damage done, anyway,” Bob pointed out, as he wriggled from behind the wheel and descended to the road.