Athol Hawke would like to have lodged a protest. He was anxious concerning the groggy side-car wheel, but almost before he knew where he was, Dick Tracey had started the engine and the motor was swishing through the crisp, powdery snow.
Down the steep Wyle Cop and across the narrow English Bridge they went, then turning shook the snow of Shrewsbury from the wheels, since it was literally impossible to shake the dust from their feet.
Mile after mile they reeled off, the road rising steadily the while. Tearing through the snow flakes was really exhilarating. The air was keen and bracing; the scenery fairy-like in the garb of glittering white.
"Glad we pushed on," exclaimed Dick. "We're doing it on our heads, don't you know. The little beast of an engine is pulling splendidly."
The words were hardly out of his mouth when there was a perceptible slowing down of the three-wheeled vehicle, although the motor throbbed with increasing rapidity.
"Belt slipping," declared Athol laconically.
"It's the leather one," said his companion as he stopped the engine and dismounted.
"We'll shove the rubber one on. Leather always is rotten stuff to slip in the wet, and yet there's a proverb, 'There's nothing like leather.'"
"Doubt whether the other one will do any better," remarked Hawke. "See, the lowermost part of the belt rim has been ploughing through the snow. This is the thickest we've had so far."
"It is," assented Dick. "But we'll push on. It is a pity to turn back. We can't be so very far from Church Stretton now. From there it's downhill almost all the rest of the way."