"You're too slow," laughed Mings.
Fumbling awkwardly with the levers and the steering-wheel, Mings managed to get the car into the road and headed for the cliffs.
"Cut off a piece of that rope, Packard," called Mings. "I'll tie the wheel so as to be sure the car goes to Lamy."
"That's right," answered Packard, "you want to be sure."
He took out his knife, slashed a piece from the free end of the rope, and handed it up to Mings. The latter began lashing the wheel.
"Sercomb ought to give us a chromo for this," said Packard, watching Mings as he worked.
"You tell him we ought to have a chromo," returned Mings, with a foolish grin. "Sercomb's a blamed good chap; nicest chap I know."
Meanwhile, Ferral's face had gone white. He was fighting desperately with the ropes, but they held him firmly and he could not free his hands. A sickening sensation ran through him.
Neither Mings nor Packard had a very lucid idea of what they were attempting. They were fair examples of what liquor can do for a person in certain situations.
"Belay!" cried Ferral desperately. "You don't understand what you're doing, you fellows! You've headed me for the cliffs, and——"