"No, we have a bite on the train which gets to London at a little before twelve. It's a half-hour's ride in taxis from the station to the Queen's Club grounds. We won't get there much before half past twelve or a quarter to one. That'll give us plenty of time to dress and be ready for the Johnny Bulls by two o'clock."
Frank finished his packing quickly, sent his suit case down to the hotel lobby, and began to fidget around. "I'm as nervous as a cat," he said to himself. "If they had only let me keep on working I'd have been a lot better off, but this waiting, waiting bothers me to death."
"Oh, there, you little jumping jack," came the hail from the street, "come and take a ride, guaranteed last appearance before breaking the world's record."
"Can't," said Frank. "Train leaves in less than two hours. Have you packed up?"
"Packed up, no. The valet will do that. Who wants to pack suit cases a morning like this? Come on, you short-skate, come on and forget Queen's Club."
"I'll go you for an hour," said Frank, "but that's the limit. I don't want to take any chances with a busted tire five miles from nowhere."
"This machine is guaranteed bust-proof. You can trust the old reliable. It is even fool-proof."
"I'd need that assurance with you around."
"And you're coming?"