Before them, set on the hillside, lay the little city. It seemed as if the houses grew by magic as they rushed upon it. They flashed past a few market wagons, passed another auto chugging along busily, and slackened the pace as the car rolled upon the brick pavements and toward the heart of the city.
"A hundred and thirty-one miles in a little over three hours," said McCarthy, elated. "That leaves us one hundred and four miles and more than four hours to make it in. We've won."
"The road has been perfect," Betty Tabor said. "For the next fifty miles it is marked bad."
She turned quietly to ask questions of the mechanician, who was overhauling and examining every part of the machine, and examining the feed pipes. Another man was filling the tanks and using oil plentifully.
"My hands and wrists are cramped and numb," she remarked, turning to McCarthy.
"Let the man drive the rest of the way. He knows the road," he urged.
"And leave me—to miss the game?" she asked. "Not much. Rub my hands, please."
She extended her strong, firm hand and McCarthy, bending over it, massaged and slapped it vigorously.
"Don't break it, please," she said, laughing. "Take the other one."
"Both," he whispered, his voice full of meaning.