The car took on a considerable pace. Jacob's best straw hat flew off, but he did not mention it. His red hair stood endwise, all ways, on his head; his eyes started; his hands gripped—one at the rail, one at the knee of his companion. The wind raised by the motion of the car became a gale and forced itself into his lungs. Jacob gasped:
"It's—on account—of Batty."
"I have a little boy of my own," observed Mr. Chester. Plainly thinking to divert the attention of the anguished father, he continued: "He had an accident this summer—he was hurt by a scythe; he slipped away from his nurse. He was pretty badly hurt. I was away—I hurried from Bar Harbor to get to him. I think I know how you feel."
"Did you have a telegraph, sir?" asked Dryver, rousing to the throb of the common human poise.
"Yes, there was a telegram. But I was a good while getting it. I understand your position."
"Did he ever get over it—your little boy? Oh, I see; that was him I heard. 'Popper,' he says—'Popper.'"
Above the whir of the automobile, above the chatter of the exhaust, above the voice of the wind, the sound of a man's muffled groan came distinctly to the ear that was fine enough to hear it.
"Trust me," said Chester, gently. "I'll get you there. I'll get you to your boy."
The gentleman's face was almost as white now as Jacob Dryver's. The fog glistened upon his mustache and made him look a gray-haired man, as he emerged from gulfs of darkness and shot by widely scattered dim street lamps. Both men had acquired something of the same expression—the rude face and the finished one; both wore the solemn, elemental look of fatherhood.
The heart of one repeated piteously: "It's Batty."