Well armed, as well as otherwise provided for, the little expedition started off again, the automobile wending in and out through the busy Chicago streets.
“We’ll make as straight a course as we can for Tucson,” said Nestor. “I know the roads pretty well, ’cause I traveled ’em in a stage years ago, when Chicago was only a village.”
The machine was puffing along at a fair rate of speed and had almost reached the outskirts of the city when a policeman, mounted on a motor-cycle, dashed up.
“I’ll have to take you in,” he announced.
“What for?” asked Ned.
“Riding too fast in the city limits.”
“But we were going slow,” objected Jerry. “If you know anything about automobiles you can see the lever is only on the first-speed notch, and that only goes ten miles an hour at best.”
“Can’t help it,” replied the officer. “I timed you and you went too fast.”
“Dog-gone his hide, let me git my gun out an’ I’ll show him who he’s a-holdin’ up!” exclaimed Nestor, in a whisper.
“No, no!” expostulated Ned, who overheard the miner’s threat. “This isn’t out West. Don’t pull any guns!”