Jimmy looked at his watch. There was just a possibility that he could make it if everything went well. Jimmy sat in silence. But his heart was beating fast with anxiety and apprehension.
On they raced through the night. The man seemed to know the road perfectly. He tore around sharp bends, dashed into dark hollows, went roaring along the straight stretches, almost without altering his pace. Suddenly he applied the brakes. Then he shot around a sharp corner. Ahead of them lights were gleaming. Jimmy recognized the flying field. He thrust his hand into his pocket, drew out his roll of bills, and counted out $30. As the Ford came to a stop before the hangar, Jimmy thrust the money into the driver’s hand, leaped from the car, and raced for a powerful, big motor that stood a few rods distant.
He ran up to the driver, who was sitting on the front seat.
“Is this the car engaged by the New York Morning Press to take a man to Tyrone?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the driver, in surprise. “He’s coming in by plane and ought to have been here some time ago. I’m beginning to be alarmed about him. Know anything about him?”
“I’m the man,” said Jimmy, climbing into the car. “My plane iced up and fell near Mingoville, but I wasn’t hurt. Get started, please.”
The driver was off like a shot. Jimmy looked at his watch.
“You’ve got thirty-five minutes to make it,” he said.
The driver’s only response was to put on more speed. Over rough roads he went spinning, as recklessly as the mountaineer had done in his Ford. But the great car he drove took up shocks and the speed did not seem so great. Jimmy wanted to protest, but when he glanced at the speedometer he thought better of it. He sat in silence, watching the road, as they went roaring along.
Once on the cement highway, the driver opened his throttle, and Jimmy watched the indicator on the dashboard creep up. From forty-five miles an hour it climbed to fifty, to fifty-five, to sixty, to seventy, to eighty miles an hour. And there the speedometer finger stood as though glued to the spot.