Mrs. Merrill exclaimed with dismay but the driver didn’t stop for consultation. With a whirl of his wheel that sent the car spinning he turned around and dashed back up the hill.
“Girls,” said Mrs. Merrill solemnly, “I think he’s crazy. But all I can see for us to do is to sit still and hang together. Maybe sometime we’ll get somewhere—let’s hope. Here, Mary Jane, snug up close so you won’t bounce out!”
And turning onto the road, the car dashed off toward the south.
ON THE OCKLAWAHA
IT seemed to Mary Jane that she surely must be in a funny dream. It couldn’t be possible that folks, really live, wide-awake folks, would go racing over the country in a strange car as they were racing; and she glanced up at her mother questioningly to see if she too was thinking it queer. But Mrs. Merrill, her arms around her two daughters, was looking straight ahead in a puzzled way and Mary Jane couldn’t guess what she was thinking about.
The little car raced on. Through sandy roads that would have stalled a heavier machine; across bridges; through woods dim with the shelter of moss laden trees; by small fields where they caught glimpses of tiny truck gardens—they dashed.
“Government camphor reservation!” shouted the driver over his shoulder as they drove between rows and rows of low, close-cropped trees set in neat orderly fashion and the Merrills got a whiff of the smell of camphor as they rushed by the rough factory where the camphor leaves are crushed to make the drug so many folks use.
“Now we’ll have to stop!” said Mrs. Merrill with a sigh of relief as they swung around a short curve and came upon a toll bridge at the end of which stood an old man, hand out-stretched for his fee. But she didn’t know the driver! He didn’t intend to stop for mere toll—not he!
“Pay you on the way back,” shouted the driver and on they rode.