“We’ll keep on 49 and take a chance,” Doyle decided.
The decision satisfied Flash, for it had occurred to him that possibly they might have an opportunity to take interesting flood pictures.
Two miles beyond the town limits they began to see evidence of high water. Ditches on either side of the road ran with it. In several low places tiny rivers blocked their way. The water was not deep and they rode through it without mishap.
They picked up speed on a long stretch of clear pavement. Ahead they could see the bridge, a long, wooden affair of ancient design. A flimsy, make-shift barrier of boards had been raised across the entrance way.
“Closed!” muttered Doyle in disgust. “We’ll never get to Excelsior City by game time now!”
He slammed on the brakes and brought the truck to a standstill not far from the bridge. Thrusting his head out the window, he called to one of the guards:
“How about letting us through? We’re newsreel cameramen and in a big hurry.”
“The bridge is unsafe,” the man answered. “It’s apt to go out any time now.”
Flash leaped from the truck and went to look at the bridge. He saw for himself that much of the underpinning had washed away. The weight of an automobile, even higher water, would be almost certain to shift it from its position.
“Water still rising?” he questioned a guard.