After that, there is no use trying to longer conceal the identity of the boy at the wheel. It was Dick. A week of instruction by Morris and a second week spent in operating alone had made him a fairly competent driver, but he had not yet passed the stage where a corner was something to be approached with vast anxiety and to be negotiated with care and deliberation. Every inch of the blue varnished surface of the car shone resplendently, and every particle of brass was polished until it was painful to view.
Two more blasts of the grumpy horn at last produced results. The screen door flew open, and Gordon, a piece of toast in one hand and a napkin in the other, appeared.
“Say, what time do you think it is?” he demanded laughingly.
“It’s time you were through breakfast, anyway,” responded Dick. “Get a hustle on. Eli hates to stand.” (Dick had named the car Eli Yale because of its color, but generally referred to it as Eli.)
“I’ll bring a lump of sugar for him,” said Gordon. “Keep a tight rein on him, Dick, and I’ll be with you in five minutes. Maybe he will stand long enough for you to come in and have a cup of coffee.”
“I wouldn’t dare risk it,” replied Dick gravely. “Besides, I never take coffee in the middle of the forenoon.”
“Middle of the forenoon!” grunted the other. “It isn’t half-past eight yet! Since you got that car, you never go to bed at all, I guess!”
Gordon vanished with that, and Dick leaned comfortably back in the runabout to wait. But an instant later a speck of tarnish on the dash clock—a gift from Louise Brent—caught his eye, and he whisked a piece of cheesecloth from a pocket on the inside of the door and attacked it indignantly. Before he had conquered it, returned the cloth and buttoned the flap again, Gordon appeared once more, capped and ready for the ride.
“All set?”
Dick looked carefully at levers and switch. “All set,” he said.