“That is the result of failure,” smiled his brother. “But we’re not going to fail!”
They had interchanged these remarks at a spot where they had to run slowly. Once free again Dan let the car out with a suddenness that made the machine leap like a horse under the spur. They shot along the country road, overhung with trees which made the darkness deeper, their head-lamps parting the gloom before them, and displaying objects with clearness. The Speedwells had fitted their car with good lamps; but no headlight will reveal an obstruction in the road far enough in advance for a car to be brought to a stop, if it is running at top speed.
They were taking chances, that was a fact. Dan Speedwell was not usually reckless; but he had a double incentive in thus “running on his luck.” Not alone did he desire to make the Holly Tree Inn within the ten-hour limit; but car number seven had not yet been passed!
Burton Poole’s auto was still ahead. Dan believed that Chance Avery would drive Poole’s car at top speed this first day. And Billy himself longed to beat car number seven no more than Dan did, although the latter said less about it.
When the clock, screwed under the wind shield, showed twenty minutes after nine they had traveled seventeen of the forty miles. And right ahead was the second village. For three miles and more they would have to reduce speed—or, were supposed to.
But it is a nice problem to run one of these racing cars at a twelve mile an hour gait!
When number forty-eight came to the head of Main Street, the lights revealed a straggling row of houses on either side, a general store, or two, a postoffice, and a clear street. If Dan reduced speed at all, Billy never noticed it!
They roared through the little town like a limited express going by a flag station. There may have been constables in that town; but they were not on hand. At least, Dan and Billy Speedwell never saw them as they shot along the main thoroughfare and out into the country on the other side.
Faster and faster the machine seemed to fly. When they took the curves Billy threw his weight upon the other side, leaning far off from the step and doing his best to keep the tires on the ground.
They flashed past the little collection of houses as Sharpe’s Crossroads. The clock pointed to twenty minutes to ten. It was nine miles to the Farmingdale Inn.