And the Speedwells were not far behind him. They filled their tank after draining out the water. They had to start slowly, and it took them nearly an hour to run the next ten miles. Then they reached a gasoline station and were very sure that the right fluid was run into their cans.
The Breton-Melville worked like a charmed car after that one accident. On the long grade which they struck about eleven o’clock—the climb over the mountain range—she acted perfectly. But eighteen miles an hour was her best speed going up.
At the summit (they reached the Tip Top House at three) the boys halted to overhaul their gear and oil up. They hoped to make Greenbaugh, in the valley, before the end of their ten mile run; but they were eighty-seven miles away. They had traveled already a hundred and forty-two miles from the Holly Tree Inn. The trick Chance Avery had played them certainly had set them back in this day’s running a good many miles!
But several of the early cars to start—the small numbers—had been passed by the Speedwells; as they figured it coming up the mountain there were only fifteen cars ahead of them, including number seven.
“And Mr. Briggs’ car,” added Billy. “She must be tearing down the mountain already. Hey!” he called to one of the men working around the stables, “has number forty-one passed on? Of course it has! How long ago?”
“Number forty-one?” repeated the man, referring to a list of the cars he carried in his pocket. “No, sir. She ain’t showed up yet.”
“Why, she passed us miles back!” cried Billy, and Dan looked up from his work in surprise, too.
“No. She hasn’t come,” said the man, with confidence.
“Why—why—what does it mean?” gasped the younger Speedwell. “It can’t be possible that we passed Mr. Briggs anywhere, and missed him.”
“He must be ahead of us,” agreed Dan.