“Hold on—stop!” yelled Tom irrepressibly.
The puffing of the newly-started machine apparently drowned out his hail. The hood of the tonneau shut Tom out from sight of Mr. Morgan and his chauffeur.
Tom ran no farther after the rapidly-gliding car. He saw in a flash that his only chance of stopping it was by a sharp swift dash diagonally to a point where the circling road cut south. He speeded reckless of flower beds and fences on his mission, flew heedless of mud and water through an obstructing swale, and, breathless and pretty nearly exhausted, gained the main-road.
Honk! honk!—not a hundred yards distant the chauffeur sounded a warning as Tom sprang into the middle of the highway, waving his arms violently to call a halt.
“What’s this?” demanded Mr. Morgan sharply, as the chauffeur perforce let the machine down to a dead stop.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Morgan——” began Tom.
“Young Barnes?” observed the capitalist, with a surprised stare at Tom.
“Yes, sir,” hurried on Tom. “I have some important news for you.”
“Important news for me?” repeated Mr. Morgan vaguely.
“Yes, sir.”