Down the other side of the long slope started the first truck, the others following in procession.
"Well, we did better than I expected we would," remarked Mr. Simpson. "These trucks——"
He stopped suddenly, as a sharp jar and crash came from somewhere in the mechanism of the machinery. The brakes had been set as the descent was begun, and the car had been traveling slowly, but now a sudden increase in speed was noticed.
"What's the matter?" asked Mr. Hamilton quickly.
"Aren't we going a bit too fast down hill?" inquired Mr. Martin.
The driver shut his lips with a grim tightening. He yanked back on the brake handle with all his force. Then a startled look came over his face.
"The brake rod is broken!" he cried.
Gathering speed the ponderous truck, with its load of humanity—the cadet football team shot down hill, bumping over stones and hollows, swerving from side to side, the steering wheel making the firm hands of the driver tremble.
"Haven't you got two brakes?" gasped Dick.
"Yes—got the foot on one—she won't hold her with this load," was the panting answer.