They were turning off into a country road, and Montague sank back and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. “Is that a common trick?” he asked.
“Quite,” said the other. “Mrs. Robbie has a trough of mud in their garage, and her driver sprinkles the tag every time before she goes out. You have to do something, you know, or you’d be taken up all the time.”
“Have you ever been arrested?”
“I’ve only been in court once,” said Oliver. “I’ve been stopped a dozen times.”
“What did they do the other times—warn you?”
“Warn me?” laughed Oliver. “What they did was to get in with me and ride a block or two, out of sight of the crowd; and then I slipped them a ten-dollar bill and they got out.”
To which Montague responded, “Oh, I see!”
They turned into a broad macadamized road, and here were more autos, and more dust, and more racing. Now and then they crossed a trolley or a railroad track, and here was always a warning sign; but Oliver must have had some occult way of knowing that the track was clear, for he never seemed to slow up. Now and then they came to villages, and did reduce speed; but from the pace at which they went through, the villagers could not have suspected it.
And then came another adventure. The road was in repair, and was very bad, and they were picking their way, when suddenly a young man who had been walking on a side path stepped out before them, and drew a red handkerchief from his pocket, and faced them, waving it. Oliver muttered an oath.
“What’s the matter?” cried his brother.