At last the time came to start. It was a fine, crisp September morning, and the boys were up early enough to see the sun rise. The suit-cases had been strapped to the machine, tires were pumped up, there was plenty of water and gasolene in the tanks, the batteries were renewed, and every bit of machinery had been gone over carefully. Andy Rush, the night previous, had sent his things over to Bob’s house, from whence the trip was to be begun. Andy himself arrived right after breakfast.
“Hurrah!” he shouted. “Here we go—all aboard—blow the horn—get out of the way—turn on the gasolene—off brakes—break the records—mile a minute—whoop!”
“You’ll have all the excitement you want for once, I hope, Andy,” said Jerry.
“Betcherlife!” exclaimed Andy, in one breath.
The boys piled into the auto; good-byes were called, over and over again. Then came a toot of a horn as Mr. Wakefield came up the road in his machine, a friend, who intended making the trip, accompanying him.
“All ready, boys?” he called.
“All ready!” replied Jerry, who was going to steer for the first stage.
With a blaring of the automobile trumpets, a waving of hands from those who had gathered to see the start, and a chorus of cries, wishing every one good luck, the little party rode away.
Mr. Wakefield, who knew the road better than did the boys, took the lead. His car was of the same pattern as theirs and both machines were of equal speed. For several miles the two autos puffed along over the pleasant country roads.
No attempt to make time was tried, and at noon the travelers found themselves in Providence, Rhode Island, that being the first stopping place Mr. Wakefield had decided on. The machines were run up in front of a quiet but good hotel, and every one was hungry enough to do full justice to the meal.