“Ah! What’s the matter with you?” growled Patsy, in extreme disgust. “You won’t be asked to fight. Prince Marcos and the doctor and I can clean them out ourselves.”
“I will fight if you go on,” returned Phillips simply.
The valet meant what he said. He was a noncombatant from preference. But, like many men of his quiet, unobtrusive nature, he would fight like a wild cat when cornered.
“We’ll go on,” said Nick Carter, in a matter-of-fact tone. “Thank you, my boy!”
He took a gold coin from his pocket and gave it to the lad, who literally fell off the running board in astonishment and delight.
“Thank you, your highness! I hope you will get to Penza all right!” cried the boy after them as the car started and began to roll away at a good speed to make the next hill.
“You’d better keep your heads low,” suggested Nick. “Phillips, I am sorry we have got you into this.”
“Never mind, your highness! The saints will preserve us!” was the valet’s fervent response.
“Full speed ahead, chief!” called out Patsy. “Gee! This is where we begin to live!”
Chick said nothing. But he took his automatic revolver from his pocket and examined it affectionately.