“It might have happened to anyone,” declared Jerry. “But it sure does make me sore to think how he cheated us on that calf deal.”
They were still talking of Mr. Sackett, and, as the account of the happening became generally known in the hotel, many stories showing the meanness of the miserly farmer were told to our heroes. Mr. Sackett was characterized as a “skinflint” of the worst kind.
They started off again, soon after dinner, and made up for the time lost over the calf transaction by speeding up to the limit allowed by the law, and, in places where there were particularly good roads, and where there were no houses, they even exceeded the limit slightly. But their necessity justified it.
“Think we’ll make Durham before dark, Jerry?” asked Bob, as he noticed the sun beginning to sink low in the west. “How much farther is it?”
“The last sign-post said thirty miles,” remarked Ned, “but if it’s anything like the usual post, that means it will be at least forty before we strike Durham.”
“In that case we won’t get in until after dark,” was Jerry’s opinion. “But we have powerful gas lamps, and it won’t matter much. Here, Ned, you take the wheel a bit, I’m tired.”
The machine was stopped while the change was made, and they went on again. Jerry cast several anxious glances at a bank of clouds gathering in the west, and Bob, also noting them, remarked:
“I think we’re in for a storm.”
“Shouldn’t wonder,” agreed the tall lad. “Hit her up for all she’s worth, Ned. Take a few chances. I don’t believe there’ll be any speed-constables out now.”
It soon became evident that they were not going to make Durham before nightfall. In fact, after passing one post by which they were informed that their destination was thirty miles farther on, the next one made it thirty-two.