It shot upward like a stone impelled by a giant’s fist, hesitated for a moment at the apex of its spring, and then crashed down onto the bridge.
But the gap had been crossed.
It was several hundred feet before Lathrop could control the auto, and when he did, and the others rushed up, they found a white-faced boy at the wheel, who was as nearly on the verge of a collapse as a healthy lad can be.
CHAPTER XXIII.
A MYSTERY.
The supplies that had been left on the bridge were hastily loaded into the auto, and the party once more took their seats. Lathrop had by this time quite recovered, and, in reply to all the encomiums heaped on him by the others, could only reply:
“That’s all right.”
With Billy Barnes at the wheel the auto chugged off once more on its errand of rescue.
Suddenly, leading up a woodland track to their right, Billy Barnes spied auto tracks.
“That must be Barr and his crowd,” shouted Billy, turning the auto up the track that converged from the main road at this point.
Rapidly and almost silently the auto made its way over the beds of pine needles that covered the rough roadway. With the reduced speed at which they were proceeding the approach of the machine could have been hardly audible to a strange group onto which the auto party a second later emerged.