It was a time of peril, and a man less used to critical moments than Dunston Porter might have lost his head completely. But this old traveler and hunter, who had faced grizzly bears in the West and lions in Africa, managed to keep cool. He saw a chance to pass on the right of the turnout 22 ahead, and like a flash he let go on the two brakes and turned on a little power. Forward bounded the big car, the right wheels on the very edge of a water-gully. The left mud-guards scraped the buggy, and the man driving it uttered a yell of fright. Then the touring car went on, to come to a halt at the bottom of the hill, a short distance away.
“Hello!” exclaimed Dave, as he looked back at the turnout that had caused the trouble. “It’s Mr. Poole!”
“You mean Nat’s father?” queried Phil.
“Yes.”
“Hi, you! What do you mean by running into me?” stormed the money-lender, savagely, as he presently managed to get his steed under control and came down beside the touring car.
“What do you mean by blocking the road, Mr. Poole?” returned Dunston Porter, coldly.
“I didn’t block the road!”
“You certainly did. If we had run into you, it would have been your fault.”
“Nonsense! You passed me on the wrong side.”
“Because you didn’t give me room to pass on the other side.”