"Lang enough," the other answered. "She's no' stretching weel."
"Then have you seen a small, black motorcycle pass?"
"No; there was a big gray yin, an' anither with a side-car."
"How long have you been outside?"
"Maybe twenty minutes; maybe a few mair."
"Thanks," said Whitney; and started the motorcycle.
"It's curious. He's traveling light, but I don't think a single-cylinder engine could beat the machine I'm driving by a quarter of an hour. Anyhow, I'll try to speed her up."
The sunlight faded off the grass as they raced away; the slaty clouds rolled higher up the sky; and the wind that whipped their faces bit keen. Andrew was swung to and fro in the rocking car, and sometimes felt uneasy when his comrade dashed furiously round the bends; but for most of the way the road ran straight, and they could see nothing on the long, white streak ahead. After a time they came to a narrow loch, ruffled by the wind, that lay in a lonely, grassy waste, and as they ran past the thin wood on its edge Andrew asked Whitney to stop.
"A motor scout," he said, indicating a man in uniform who rode leisurely toward them on a bicycle.
The scout dismounted when they called to him, and said he had left Castle Douglas an hour before and had kept to the main road, but had not seen a single-cylinder motorcycle. They let him go and Whitney lighted a cigarette.