"Can we ever catch them up?" I asked.
"I guess so—this car can make seventy-five miles an hour. Are you game for a race?"
"I'm game for anything that'll land me where I belong."
"All right—hold on to your hat."
I guess the Lord protects those who are bent on His own business. Anyway I don't know why else we weren't killed. We ate up that road like a dago eating macaroni; it ran under the car like a white ribbon fastened to a spindle somewhere behind us. The woods were two green streaks on either side, and now and then a chuck hole would send me bouncing, landing anywhere—on the floor once.
"Hold on to something," he shouted at me. "I don't want to lose you."
And I shouted back:
"You couldn't. I'm wished on to this motor till death do us part or it lands me somewhere alive."
Through the villages we had to slow up. Gliding dignified along the tree-shaded streets put me into a fever and I guess it wore on him for more than once I heard him muttering to himself, and believe me, he wasn't saying his prayers. I glimpsed sideways at him, and saw his tanned face, with the hair loose and tousled by the wind, looking changed, hardened and older, all the gay expression gone. The news he'd forced out of me had hit him a body blow, struck him in the heart. And I was sorry, awfully sorry. You can hurt a mean person or a criminal and not care, but it's no lady's job to have to wound a decent man. That's why I'd never make a good professional—the people get as big as the case to me, and if you're the real thing it's only the case that counts.
We were almost in Long Island City when we caught up with the Janneys, Mrs. Janney's veil still waving like a hand beckoning us to hurry.