Willard’s cry was drowned in the hoarse barking of the horn. There was no time to stop, and Willard, clinging frantically to the seat, closed his eyes. There was a shout of alarm beside him, the car tipped perilously, there was a tremendous jolt and the sound of splintering wood, and then—the steady whirr and hum of the car once more. Willard opened his eyes. Ahead of them the road stretched straight and empty.
“Did we hit them?” he gasped.
“No, struck a rail fence,” came the untroubled answer. “Missed the wagon by nearly a foot, I guess. There’s Potterstown ahead.”
Willard’s nervous bracing of his feet on the floor ceased as the car lessened its speed to run into the little village, and he uttered a sigh of relief. Tom heard it, perhaps, for he chuckled as he threw out his clutch in front of the little hotel in the square and put his brakes on hard.
“Which way to Finley Falls?” he called to a group on the porch.
“Straight on for a half a mile and then turn left at the old school house. You can’t miss that. Keep on till you come to a big barn about four miles along. Take the right hand road there and you’ll fetch the Falls.”
“How far is it?” asked Tom.
“’Bout twenty-four miles, I guess; maybe a little more.”
“Thank you.” Tom turned to Willard. “What time is it now?”
Willard held the face of his watch to the dim light that came from the open door of the hotel. “Twenty-eight minutes to eight,” he answered.