"We'll do it," said Templeton, "provided, first, the petrol lasts out the hill ahead; second, there aren't any lorries in the way. But in any case we must run it fine, you know. You don't want Noakes or Saunders to get in at all, I take it."
"Sorra a bit."
"Would they tender higher than you?" asked Eves.
"They might."
"What a pity we didn't give Noakes that message, Bob. Some one at the camp wanted to give him the tip to cut his tender; there was no other to hand."
"The like of that, now, and me having the name of an honest man! Will I have time enough to write a word or two with the stump of a pencil? I have my tender in my pocket folded."
"Better let it alone; we'll keep Noakes off. He's still rattling along, Bob; do we get the wind up the hill?"
"I'm afraid not. The road takes an awkward turn; just ahead there, you see. We'll have to rely on the petrol, and trust to luck."
The yacht rounded the turn, and the hill came in view—a short sharp spur about a quarter-mile in length. In a trice they dowsed the sails. Templeton switched on the engine, intending to rush the incline. Looking behind somewhat anxiously now, the Irishman declared that the green car was barging on like a mad steam engine. Roaring like a furnace, it seemed to leap over the ground, overhauling the yacht yard by yard until it was three-parts up the hill. Then the clamour suddenly ceased.
"Begor, she's stopped," cried the Irishman, exultantly.