HOW HAVERLY FOILED THE BOAT-STEALERS.
WITHIN a few seconds the two men were flying between the hedges of a country road, with the powerful engines of Oswyn’s “Panhard” throbbing beneath them.
“Say,” the Yankee asked, after a few moments’ travelling, “how far do you reckon it?”
“About forty-five miles to Hilton Manor,” was the response.
“What speed have you got on?” was Haverly’s next question.
“Forty,” returned Oswyn.
“I guess she’ll do better than that. Chuck the lever over.”
“It’s risky in the dark,” warned Oswyn, yet he obeyed his companion’s order notwithstanding. Beneath the added power the car leapt forward like a thing of life, her monstrous headlights glaring through the gloom like the eyes of some huge animal. Her every bolt and rivet quivered and sang with the throbbing of the mighty cylinders.
She was a veritable projectile, yet the doctor’s hand was as steady as a rock as he gripped the wheel. Presently Haverly consulted his watch.
“Is she doing all she knows?” he asked.