"Anybody at that draw?" asked Winthrop. Unconsciously his voice also had sunk to a whisper.
"No," returned Fred. "I think the man that tends the draw goes home at night; there is no light there."
"Well then," said Winthrop, with an anxious sigh, "we've got to make a dash for it."
The car shot forward, and, as it leaped lightly upon the bridge, there was a rapid rumble of creaking boards.
Between it and the highway to New York lay only two hundred yards of track, straight and empty.
In his excitement the chauffeur rose from the rear seat.
"They'll never catch us now," he muttered. "They'll never catch us!"
But even as he spoke there grated harshly the creak of rusty chains on a cogged wheel, the rattle of a brake. The black figure of a man with waving arms ran out upon the draw, and the draw gaped slowly open.
When the car halted there was between it and the broken edge of the bridge twenty feet of running water.
At the same moment from behind it came a patter of feet, and Winthrop turned to see racing toward them some dozen young men of Fairport. They surrounded him with noisy, raucous, belligerent cries. They were, as they proudly informed him, members of the Fairport "Volunteer Fire Department." That they might purchase new uniforms, they had arranged a trap for the automobiles returning in illegal haste from New Haven. In fines they had collected $300, and it was evident that already some of that money had been expended in bad whiskey. As many as could do so crowded into the car, others hung to the running boards and step, others ran beside it. They rejoiced over Winthrop's unsuccessful flight and capture with violent and humiliating laughter.