Matt, on the other hand, could get sixty miles an hour out of the Comet, and even sixty-five if he had to in order to get that letter into Chub's hands before the good road jumped into the bog.
This meant that he had four miles in which to come up with the locomotive—for Chub was riding in the cab with Moody, and Matt, now that the smoke was behind him, could see his chum hanging from the gangway.
The morning sun had dried the road completely, but there was a dampness in the air, and damp weather is a prolific breeder of motor-cycle troubles.
If the Comet should begin to misfire on the high speed, if——
Dread possibilities began to flash through Matt's mind, but he thrust them aside. He was there to do his utmost for Clip, and to hope for the best.
Out of the tails of his eyes he glimpsed excited faces at the car-windows. The passengers were watching him as he passed the swiftly moving coaches. Naturally they could have no idea what his object was in racing with the train, but a look at his set, determined face was enough to convince them that there was a deep purpose back of his work. Through the open windows ladies fluttered handkerchiefs, and men pushed out their heads and cheered him. It was a wonderful thing to see that gallant little machine close in on the rushing locomotive.
Two nerve-racking minutes had passed and two miles of the good road had been covered. This meant that Matt had but two minutes more in which to transfer his letter to Chub.
The Comet was alongside the baggage-car now, and Matt could see his chum plainly in the gangway. He was leaning far out, holding to the hand-rails with one hand and stretching the other toward Matt.
"Mile-a-minute Matt!" yelled Chub, in wild encouragement, "King of the Motor-boys! Come on, pard! A little farther, a little——"
Just then a hand gripped Chub's shoulder and yanked him back into the cab, while an angry voice commanded him to stay inside.