The play that won

by Ralph Henry Barbour

“H’m, I guess a little more discomfort won’t matter! Let’s get on, let’s get on!”

They went on, with the speedometer wavering round thirty-three miles an hour. Twice Tom had to slow down: once when the road dipped and turned sharply under a railway bridge, and again when they passed through the little village of West Adams. At intervals Mr. Fletcher, carefully releasing his hold on the car, took out his watch and reported the time.

“Ten thirty-eight,” he said, as they speeded up again beyond West Adams. “How much farther?”

“About twelve miles. We’ll do it if——”

“We’ve got to do it!”

A few minutes later Mr. Fletcher sniffed the air. “She’s heating up, isn’t she? Got water in your radiator?”

“No, sir; she’s air-cooled.”

“Smells like it!”

A long hill rose in front, and Tom pulled down his throttle another notch or two. Puff took the hill flying, and Mr. Fletcher grunted in unwilling admiration.