“Don’t you think we had better turn back?” suggested Marjorie, who was beginning to feel rather hungry. “It must be getting late.”
“This road ought to take us back to the other end of Silvertown, if we keep on the same way we are going,” replied Harold. “But if you stop a minute, I’ll look under the back seat for my map. That ought to tell us.”
“Do I have to stop?” entreated Frieda. “Please let me keep on running it till we get back to civilization!”
Harold deliberated a moment. Ordinarily, he would not have considered taking such a chance as allowing a novice to run his Ford, even for a few seconds, without his hand beside the wheel to grasp it in case of an accident. But now he was willing to risk almost anything which might make for delay. The meet was called for three o’clock; even if Marjorie did get there in time, she could not exercise on an empty stomach, nor yet could she swim right after eating. His plans were working beautifully; perhaps, after all, he might succeed.
“You run slowly, then,” he finally said to Frieda, “while Marjorie and I look for the map. But please be very careful!”
The new driver felt quite sure of herself, and went ahead slowly, while Marjorie and Harold rummaged under the back seat for the map. Among the tools, oil cans, and dirty rags, Marjorie suddenly caught sight of a piece of grey wig.
“What’s this?” she demanded with curiosity, holding up the straggly hair. “Do you wear a wig, Harold, or false whiskers?”
Every bit of color left the boy’s face, as he beheld the tell-tale object. Wildly he sought for an explanation.
“Oh—that! Why—I’m in a play—an old grandfather, you know——”
He turned to the map, which he had just managed to locate, and busied himself in contemplation of it.