“I know my list is right,” said the man. “I been noting every car that’s in the race. You see how I’ve put a star against those that have got by. Number forty-one ain’t one of ’em.”
“A big maroon car—a Postlethwaite,” suggested Dan.
“No, sir. Ain’t no maroon car gone through. I’m mighty sure of that!”
“Well, what do you know about that?” murmured Billy, staring at his brother. “Think that was a delusion back there on the road? Maybe we didn’t see Mr. Briggs’ car, either?”
“Maybe we didn’t,” replied Dan, gravely. “But I guess that man in thirty-seven wouldn’t agree that it was a delusion that scratched up his panels.”
“Whew! I should say not.”
At that moment the hostler with the checked list broke in on their conversation.
“How far did you come to-day?” he asked.
“Hundred and forty miles,” grunted Billy. He wasn’t proud of their speed.
“Then you slept at Farmingdale?”