“Just as fast as is consistent with a reasonable degree of safety now,” Mr. Rack said, placidly. “First, to Creek’s garage.”
The Big Six moved swiftly away, throwing always a flood of light ahead, its gleaming oil lamps seeming to be but a streak of white to those who watched it pass.
In a minute’s time the detective apparently had seen all he wished to see at the small garage. While he looked the place over Way, at his request, was locating Chief Fobes by phone. The policeman came from the hotel on the run when told that Mr. Bob Rack wanted him. For perhaps five minutes he and the detective talked in Willie Creek’s office.
“That fellow Coster got out about nine o’clock. He must have got off with the Torpedo about half-past nine. About a two hours’ start of us,” said Billy Worth to his friends in the tonneau. There was no doubt in his mind, whatever, that the jail-bird had flown in the stolen machine.
“Funny that the only thing Mr. Rack ’specially noticed in all we could tell him, Bill, was about the planks that had been carried from over the hill to run the Six down the bank on,” observed Paul Jones, thoughtfully.
“Looks a lot like Hipp and Earnest, so far as the hiding of our car goes, Mack,” Billy added to Paul’s idea, for Dave was an interested listener.
“In with you! Speed now, David, if there’s such a thing!” This from Detective Bob, the first words to Phil standing beside the car, the second order to MacLester at the wheel. And as the Six instantly responded,—“Out to the right-hand fork, and not a minute to lose!” he said.
There was unmistakable authority and command in his manner. One could have thought of nothing but instant obedience. Yet from his smile and gentle tone it seemed that he might have said, “I declare, it’s a very pleasant evening.”
Their hearts beating hard with the excitement of adventure and the rapid ride, the Auto Boys vainly speculated, each in his own thoughts, upon the unknown plans and intentions of the detective.
“Turn right! We’re doing famously, but—” Without a sign of question, or any movement save a quick, short nod to say that he heard, MacLester obeyed Bob Rack’s order. Like a flying specter, the Big Six shot down the little grade where the lonely Right Fork branched off, and on and on.