“No, only locals stop there. But if you want to go to Denver, I can tell you a better way. Why don’t you go to Meldon station. That’s only ten miles farther on, and the Denver Limited stops there. You can make it I guess,” and he looked at his watch. “She leaves there at nine o’clock to-night, and it’s one of the few stops until she hits Denver. You can only get locals at Belmont. The Limited beats them all to pieces.”
“We’ll do it!” cried Jerry. “Come on, fellows! On to Meldon!”
“You’ve got to travel pretty fast,” the man warned them. “And the roads aren’t very good—especially at night.”
“We can do it!” cried Jerry. “Meldon for ours, and we’ll beat Noddy on his local!”
They were soon chugging down the road, in the gathering darkness. Bob started to get supper, when Jerry stopped a little later to light the powerful gas lamps, and then they went on at increased speed. Jerry drove the car as fast as was safe, but their bad luck pursued them, for they took the wrong turn at a point five miles from Meldon, and went eight miles out of their way.
“Oh hang it!” cried Ned when they were set right by a truck farmer on a load of produce. “Can we make it, Jerry?”
“I guess so,” and the tall lad threw the gasolene lever over a couple more notches, and advanced the spark full.
The big car fairly bounded along, and it seemed as if they would get to Meldon in time to catch the Limited. But they struck a stretch of sand that held them back. However, Jerry drove on like mad, and soon the lights of the station came into view.
“What are you going to do with the car?” cried Ned above the noise of the motor.