Morris led the way toward the pier, where the Clearfield road joined the shore avenue, and Gordon saw the blue runabout standing at the side of the road. It was a very attractive little car, in spite of the layer of gray dust which sullied the shining varnish.
“Isn’t she a peach?” demanded Morris. “And go! Say, I went nearly forty miles an hour in her the other day!”
“Yes,” replied Gordon dryly, “Dick saw you, I guess. He said you were racing with the trolley.”
“Oh, shucks, not that time! I was only doing about thirty then. I had to slow down for a team. You ought to have seen me the other morning on the Springdale road. That was going some, I tell you!”
“Well, if you try any thirty mile stunt to-day I’ll fall out the back of it,” warned Gordon.
“I won’t. Wait till I start it. All right. In you get. Pretty comfortable seats, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” agreed Gordon as the runabout swung around in the dusty road and headed toward Clearfield at a moderate speed. “Does—does your father know about it?”
Morris chuckled. “No, not yet. I don’t want him to, but I suppose some busybody will tell him.”
“Bound to,” said Gordon. “Especially if you do such spectacular stunts as you did the other day. Folks on the trolley, Dick said, expected to see you go off the road any minute.”
“Pooh! Folks who don’t drive autos always think that. Why, you’re just as safe in this thing as you are in the trolley. Safer, I guess. Remember when the car jumped the track year before last and killed six or seven people?”