“If we don’t get there before noon, it will be too late,” Phillips reminded him.
“We shall not be late,” said Nick shortly.
“And you can bet that when the chief says it that way, it goes,” observed Patsy to himself.
Chick had discarded his high hat—which Phillips had bestowed carefully in its own box—and now wore a soft cap, which shaded his eyes. He had been staring out to one side of the road, in silence, with his hand over the visor of the cap, to make his vision better.
“Chief!” he whispered, leaning over the back of the seat. “I think I saw him again just now.”
“Where?”
“Riding down the hill, on the other side of that thicket of big trees. There seems to be a road over there where horses can go.”
“There is a trail of that kind,” answered Nick, steadily driving. “It is not bad for horses, and it is much more direct to Joyalita than this road.”
“Then that is how this fellow keeps on cutting off corners,” suggested Chick.
“It can easily be done,” assented Nick, still looking straight ahead, in the light of the electric headlamps which he had just turned on. “How many times have we seen him now?”