“Lots of power! What’s that?”
A dull pounding noise was coming from under the car.
“Flat tire,” said Tom. “We’ll have to run on the rim.”
“Ten forty-seven!” Mr. Fletcher announced. “Can we do it?”
“If she’ll hold together! It’s only about six miles, I think.”
“When you get this side of town, where the two roads branch at the powder factory, take the right. It’s a poor road, but it’s a mile shorter and goes straight to the station.”
Bumpity-bump! went the body against the axle! Thumpity-thump! went the wheel with the flat tire. Honk! honk! went the horn. The little car tore along. Five minutes later the smoke pall above Bristol was in sight. The road grew rougher and wagons began to dispute the way. At the powder factory Tom swung to the right on a road that was rutted by heavy teaming.
“Just fifty-seven!” shouted Mr. Fletcher above the noise.
Tom nodded. Ahead of them the city, with its tall chimneys belching smoke, was now in plain sight. Puff jumped and careened, but kept its pace. Three miles more and seven minutes left!
Suddenly an exclamation of dismay from his companion sent Tom’s gaze traveling far up the road. A quarter of a mile ahead a drawbridge spanned a river, and approaching it from downstream was a tugboat. Even as Tom looked little puffs of gray steam rose from the tug, and an instant later the whistle blasts from it reached him. She was signaling for the draw; the tender already had begun to swing the gates.