They roared down a slope, thrashed their way up a tough incline on “high,” and sped along a plateau as smooth almost as a ballroom floor, with the sun warming their shoulders and the sweet breath of full-blown trees and tropical vegetation in their nostrils.
Phillips again leaned forward as they came near the end of the plateau and touched Carter on the shoulder to call his attention. He had to raise his voice to the utmost to make the detective hear him.
“Seven miles more, sir!” he shouted. “Then we shall be clear of Carita. You see that tall white post ahead of us?”
“Yes.”
“That marks the boundary line. When we are past that we are in Joyalita. We shall get to Penza in time, with something to spare.”
“That’s what I’m aiming for,” answered Nick Carter, as he glanced at the boundary post.
“Two miles beyond that post and the shanty by the side of it, where the customs officer is keeping watch, we go through a pass. That is the real frontier, although the boundary post was put there many years ago, before it was quite settled where the line is, and is generally recognized.”
This was a long speech for Phillips, especially at the top of his voice, and he dropped back in his seat, exhausted.
The car began to glide down a long grade, and Nick was hoping the customs officer would not bother him. He wanted to get up good speed passing the house, so that he could take the hill facing him with plenty of power on.
Just as he got to the house, however, a boy of about twelve years of age ran out and stood almost in front of the car, waving for him to stop.