“It’s ten minutes to eight,” interrupted Florence; “don’t you girls think we had better start?”
“No,” replied Marjorie, thoughtfully. “It would never do to start at ten minutes of the hour. Let’s leave on the very stroke of eight.”
“Then we ought to get our hats on and be all ready—and give Mrs. Hadley her good-bye kisses.”
“And don’t forget mine!” added John, hopefully.
They were off at last, Marjorie at the wheel of the big car, and Lily in the driver’s seat of her own, directing their course through the Park. Here they followed the Wissahickon, past all the spots where Marjorie had looked so eagerly for a location for the tea-room the year before; and as they saw it in all its natural loveliness more than one girl experienced a passing sensation of homesickness at the thought of leaving so much beauty behind.
But by the time they left the Park at the City Line, and climbed the long steep hill over the river, the joy of travelling, the lure of the open road had taken hold of them, and made them anxious to press on. Both machines took the sharp incline on high, and sped on to the succeeding hills; then, when they came to the church at the cross-roads, where they met the Lincoln Highway, both drivers stopped for a minute.
“Here is the red, white, and blue mark!” cried Marjorie. “The mark that we’ll be looking for all the way out to the coast.”
“Here’s hoping we never miss it!” exclaimed Alice, fervently.
“Shall I continue to lead?” asked Marjorie, turning to Lily.
“Yes, yes, go on,” urged the other. “The large car ought to go first.”