"All ready," announced the garage keeper. "I think she'll stand it now."
"It's 11.10," said McCarthy. "If we get there by three."
"If we get there at all," she said, "even if you are late, you can get into the game."
For five miles they sped along over perfect roads, then suddenly a long stretch of new macadam loomed ahead. For three miles they lurched and struggled, and were free again, but the road was heavy and slow. Up hill and down they fought the road, at times slipping, lurching and skidding while the girl coaxed the car onward. The road grew worse and worse. The hills were steeper. The rain-guttered mud at times almost stalled the car.
"Twenty miles in an hour and ten minutes," groaned McCarthy. "This won't do."
The next hour was even worse. The girl was showing signs of weariness and the strain of holding the machine in the rough going. Three miles of good road across a hill-top plateau raised their courage, then they encountered sand.
It was twenty minutes to two o'clock, when, mud splattered, they raced into Hilton, with the car missing fire in one cylinder, the engine smoking and gasoline almost exhausted.
McCarthy almost lifted Betty Tabor from the car as they stopped at the garage and she gave rapid directions to the manager, explaining the need of haste.
"I'm afraid the car won't get you through," he said, "but we'll try."
"Have it ready at two o'clock," she ordered quickly. "We must get through somehow."