"Give it here."
Pringle pulled a quart bottle from his pocket. It was half-full of liquor.
Matt drew the cork and spilled the whisky into the road; then, again on his knees, he studied the car behind.
The driver of the runabout was holding his car to a steady line. The left-hand wheels tracked the road a point two feet to the left of the trail of the Red Flier.
Standing in the car and bracing himself with his left hand, Matt raised the empty bottle in his right.
Crash!
The bottle, broken to fragments in the road, offered a danger-point for the car behind. The speed of the Flier had scattered the jagged glass, but most of it had gone to the place Matt had in mind.
Hank, hearing the crash, instinctively divined what had happened.
"To the right, to the right!" he roared, brandishing his revolver in the driver's face.
But the speed of the runabout was so great that swerving the car, before the danger-zone was reached, was out of the question.