It was well along in the afternoon when Mrs. Martin noticed that her husband was speeding the automobile each chance he got on good roads, and she also saw him often looking at the clock on the board in front of him.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Are we late?”
“We aren’t quite as far along on our trip as I’d like to be,” he answered. “There were more hills than I counted on. But I think we’ll get there before dark.”
“I hope so,” said his wife. “It won’t be very pleasant settling in a strange bungalow after dark.”
“I’ll hurry as much as is safe,” said Mr. Martin. He put on more speed, but as they were coming down a narrow road that led across a small white bridge there appeared, just ahead coming toward them around a turn in the highway, a big load of hay.
“You’ll never pass that!” said Ted.
“Call to him to stop before he gets on the bridge,” said Janet.
“It would be wise to do that,” added Mrs. Martin. “If he doesn’t stop, or you don’t, Dick, you’ll meet on the bridge, and there isn’t room to pass anything as large as a load of hay.”
“I guess you’re right,” admitted her husband. “I can’t very well stop on this hill with the load I have. I say, you there!” he called to the driver of the hay wagon. “Pull up, will you? Wait until I pass you, please! Don’t go on the bridge!”
Whether the rattle of the hay wagon drowned Mr. Martin’s words, or whether the farmer was deaf was not known, but the load of dried grass kept on, and, in another moment, it and the automobile were close to the bridge.