"No, it's not. It's O'Brien's Lane."
Then, after a long silence, "Can't you back out?"
"It's rather—I mean sorter risky, mister. I don't know how far I'd have to back, doncherknow—er, ahem!"
"The crossroads can't be more than a hundred yards behind you. Where are you going?"
"I'm going for—a doctor," called Windomshire, hastily.
"Well, then, we ought not to stand here all night," groaned Joe, his ears open to catch the sound of the locomotive's whistle. There was no time to be lost.
"I'll—I'll try to back her out," shouted Windomshire. Eleanor whispered something shrilly and anxiously from the tonneau, and Joe called out instantly:
"Who is ill?"
"Mrs.—Mrs. Smith," replied the other, bravely.
"Good!" exclaimed Dauntless, heartily. Windomshire was not in the least annoyed by the lack of sympathy. He began to drive his car backward by jerks and jolts, blindly trusting to luck in the effort to reach the road which he had passed in his haste a few minutes before. Joe was shouting encouragement and pushing slowly forward in his own machine. The noise of the engines was deafening.