Avery came in and, as usual, scowled at Dan and Billy.
“We want to start when the Speedwells do, don’t we, Chance?” asked Burton. “I’d like to see how that old car of theirs runs.”
“We’ll start when we’re ready,” growled Chance. “I don’t want to know anything about the Speedwell’s car—or when they start.”
“Well!” began Billy, but Dan reached over and put a hand on his arm.
“Drop it, youngster!” he commanded.
Billy conquered his anger with an effort, and the brothers were very soon done. They had their gasoline to get and they had already taken the cans around to the nearest supply depot. They proposed to pick them up after leaving the hotel.
Dan reported their time after running the car out of the stable yard. Chance and Burton could easily have been ready, but it was evident that the former deliberately delayed their start until after the Speedwells should get under way.
The Breton-Melville car had sufficient gasoline in her tank to run forty or fifty miles; so they stopped at the fuel station only long enough to strap on the extra cans. It was exactly seven when the car left the Holly Tree Inn, and they could run until five in the afternoon—practically ten hours of daylight.
It was a warm morning, and there was a fog in the valleys. The frost of overnight had turned to patches of black damp upon the ploughed fields. The roads were just moist enough to be treacherous.
There was no car ahead of number forty-eight within sight, and she steamed away from Farmingdale in fine shape. Dan did not try to get any particular speed out of her. Beyond Farmingdale the roads were rather bad for some miles and there were many turns and twists in the way. He feared to travel fast, for the wheels of the drab car could easily skid, and bring them to grief.