With a purring of the valves, a soft panting from the exhaust, and a whir of wheels, a huge red machine flew past them in a cloud of dust.
"Forty miles an hour," said Hodge, blinking his eyes and turning his cap brim down to the cloud of dust. "That's some speed for these roads, Merry."
"And I'll guarantee they'll go through town like that," returned Frank. "Whew! Some of these machines ought to have a sprinkler attachment."
"They're stopping," said Bart. "By George! they're turning into your place. Did you know any one in the car?"
"Got only a glimpse of them, and they seemed to be strangers to me."
"That's a flyer they have. What make is it, do you know?"
"It's a French machine, I believe. It looks to me like a Mercedes."
"Are you going to have an imported machine, Frank?"
"Oh, no. I'm satisfied with the best American makes. A good American machine is better adapted for our roads than any of the crack foreigners."
"How do you make that out?"