“Oh, hardly any time at all. Why?”
“See those black clouds in the north. Looks as if we were in for a storm. The air feels heavy, too.”
“Well, a heavy rainstorm will do a lot of good and won’t hurt us. The whole country’s as dry as an old bone.”
“That’s what. But I was thinking of that stretch of clay road on our way back. If much rain falls that will be as sticky as a tub full of glue.”
“Oh, we’ll be back long before the storm breaks,” said Jack confidently.
But the welding job took a little longer than they thought it would, and as they set out on their return journey the sky was as black as a slate, and little sharp puffs of wind were driving the dust in whirling “devils” through the streets. As they rolled away from the blacksmith’s shop, one or two large drops pattered down on the folded gas envelope above their heads.
The boys didn’t bother about this, however, and sped along while the rain fell faster and faster. At last they reached the stretch of clay road, which was about two miles from their home.
“Have to put on full power,” decided Jack, turning on more of the radolite gas. The motor puffed and snorted as the Flying Road Racer labored through the heavy blue clay, but it didn’t stall and, considering the nature of the going, good speed was made.
But if they succeeded in avoiding being stalled, others were not so fortunate; As they came puffing around a bend in the heavy, sticky road, they saw, through the rain, that a big yellow touring car was stuck in the middle of the highway, and all the efforts of the two men operating were unavailing to force it through the mire.
As the Flying Road Racer came chugging through the mud, one of the men looked around and hailed the boys. His was a somewhat heavy-set figure, muffled in a red rubber rain coat. From under his goggles there streamed an immense red beard. His companion, so far as the boys could see, was slighter of figure and dark, with a small moustache almost hiding a thin-lipped mouth.