No car ever worked more sweetly than did the Red Flier. She hummed like a swarm of bees, and Matt's trained ear told him that the machinery was working to perfection.
"She can do sixty!" again shouted Tomlinson. "We mustn't let the scoundrels overhaul us now! Five hundred dollars for you, King, if you keep us away from them!"
"Oof anypody can do dot," yelled Carl, "id vas Modor Matt. Hoop-a-la, Matt! Hid 'er oop, hid 'er oop! Ve don't vant to get ketched any more dan vat Domlinson does."
"They're gaining, they're gaining!" cried Pringle.
He had freed his hands himself, accomplishing it the moment Gregory had hustled Tomlinson into the tonneau. If Tomlinson or Gregory recognized Pringle as one of the robbers, they failed to say anything about it in the general excitement.
But if Tomlinson was urging Motor Matt onward, the desperate Hank was doing no less with the driver of the runabout. And Hank's urging carried with it a threat of life and death.
Foot by foot, steadily and relentlessly, the runabout drew closer to the touring-car. With frenzied eyes Tomlinson watched the closing gap. Presently the racer behind was so close that those in the Flier could see the grimly resolute look on Hank's face, and could hear the fierce words with which he threatened the man under his revolver-point.
"Who's got a revolver?" cried Tomlinson desperately.
"Here you vas!" Carl answered, and handed over the gun he had in his pocket.
"It's mine!" exclaimed Tomlinson, as he took the weapon.