"If the machine doesn't stop, we'll stop it," Connie put in.
"Sure," I said, "we have a good argument."
"Brewster's Centre is getting to be a famous name," Westy said.
Connie said, "Sure, we're getting to be known in all the highways and byways—especially the highways. What do you say we give a movie show right here?"
"Vetoed," I told him.
We sat on the platform steps talking and jollying each other; what did we care? Be it ever so much in the wrong place, there's no place like home. Maybe you've read stories about boys running away from home for adventures, but our home was a good sport, it went with us. It had a good name, too, Brewster's Centre. Because it was right plunk in the center of the road.
Pretty soon Westy shouted, "Here comes the car. See it? You can see it right through the trees. It's green and red."
"It'll be black and blue if it tries to get past here," Wig said.
It was a great big touring car and its bright brass lights and trimmings were all shiny on account of the sun setting and shining right on them. It came rolling along, about fifty miles an hour, out from the woods, and then even faster as it hit it up along the straight road. Oh, boy, didn't it just eat up the miles!
I guess it must have been getting over the ground at about sixty per, when it began slowing down and stopped about a dozen yards from our car. Oh, bibbie, that was some peachy machine.