"Then look it up on the map," exclaimed Admiral Sefton triumphantly. "You'll find you're wrong. That's why I couldn't understand your father's intention of keeping to the East Coast route until he explained his preference."
"We'll do it quicker, too," rejoined Crosthwaite, Senior. "Once we're clear of the outskirts of Manchester we'll reel off the miles like winking. Here you are: Rochdale, Halifax, Bradford, and Harrogate, striking the Great North Road at Boroughbridge."
The journey was resumed, the admiral, as before, sitting with Crosthwaite Senior, while George and Leslie, comfortably ensconced in the rear seats, were surreptitiously examining a formidable-looking air-pistol that Leslie Sefton had smuggled into his portmanteau.
It was modelled after a Service weapon, having the same weight and balance. The barrel was rifled, and was capable of sending a lead slug with considerable force and low trajectory from a distance of fifty yards.
"We'll take pot shots at rabbits on the way," declared Leslie. "The governor won't hear the sound. It makes very little noise, and the engine will drown that. There'll be hundreds of bunnies up there," and he pointed to the still-distant outlines of the frowning Pennines.
Up and up, out of the dreary manufacturing district, the car climbed, until the moist smoky atmosphere of the cotton-mills gave place to the keen bracing air of the hills.
Both lads, alive to the possibilities of using the air-pistol, hung on to the side of the car, their eyes roving the grass-land in the hope of spotting a likely target.
The car had been climbing on low gear, but now the gradient became less. The travellers were nearing the summit of Blackstone Edge.
Suddenly Leslie levelled the weapon, aiming at what he took to be the body of a rabbit showing above the top of a hillock. He was on the point of pressing the trigger when a loud crash, followed by a cloud of smoke and dust immediately behind the car, almost caused the pistol to drop from his grasp.
"What's that?" exclaimed Admiral Sefton.