The car started again, the exhaust popping loudly, the gears rasped as Tom pulled the lever and The Ark took up her journey once more. Tom ran cautiously through the little village which strung itself out along the straight road. Suddenly a hoarse and anxious voice sounded at his ear.
“What time is it now?” asked Mr. Connors.
“Twenty-eight to eight, sir.”
“How far have we come?”
“About twenty-six miles, I think. I can’t say exactly because I don’t know just how far it is to the Falls.”
“When will we get there?”
“We ought to be there in another hour, sir.”
“An hour more!” exclaimed Mr. Connors with a groan. “Can’t you go any faster, Benton. I haven’t said anything about paying you for this, but it’s fifty dollars, a hundred, if you get me there before—” his voice broke—“before it’s too late!”
“I’ll do the best I can, Mr. Connors. I’ve run the car at her limit most of the way and I’ll hit it up again as soon as we find the next turn. And I guess that’s it ahead there now.”
He was right. A small, hip-roofed building, set in an apex between diverging roads, with a flag-pole in front of it, was plainly the schoolhouse. The Ark swung to the left and Tom’s fingers sought the throttle lever. The Ark’s purr became a hoarse roar. Faster and faster the car plunged through the darkness. It was cold now with the damp chill of an autumn night, and Willard, his jacket buttoned tight to his throat and the collar turned up, shivered as they flew down a long hill, the air rushing past them like the blast from a giant fan. Tom slowed up at the foot of the hill and half arose in his seat.