At this moment Tom came running down the path from the house.
“There’s the fellow who’s been the worst of the lot,” cried Ted bitterly, tears of rage shining in his eyes.
“Has he?” smiled Warren. “Then I believe Halstead will come in for a pretty handsome reward from your father.”
“Maybe,” hinted Joe, “if you folks can get us into Nantucket and up at the door of the probate court before the minute of four.”
“Start her up, please,” begged Halstead, as his feet struck the running board and he squeezed in among the tightly-packed crowd. “What time is it now—exactly?”
“Twelve minutes to four,” responded Warren.
“Whew! What if we miss?” quivered Halstead, his face again paling.
“We won’t,” Warren assured him, as the car lurched forward.
Nor would there have been any danger, but about a mile out of Nantucket something went wrong with the gasoline flow. The man driving the car had to get out and crawl under. Two others got out and helped him. Halstead, who had wound and set his watch by the deputy’s, sat watching the fateful minutes slip by. In a very short time the car was ready to go on again.
“I’ll speed her now,” promised the man at the steering wheel. “It’s make or break.”