After that Spangler had no time to talk—he was too busy holding himself in the car.
Meanwhile the Red Flier had been streaking it through the hills, Josh keeping a pair of keen eyes on the back track, and Matt giving his entire attention to the road ahead.
"Chee, wot a bump!" cried Josh.
He had seen the runabout skid across the road, take a welt at the rock wall and then leap onward like a bullet from a gun.
"What's the matter?" shouted Matt.
He had to shout, for the wind of their flight caught the words out of his teeth and flung them, a mere wisp of sound, far to rearward.
"Brisco tried t' knock over a hill wit' his hind wheels," yelled Josh, "an' Spang tried t' turn a handspring over de bonnet. Wow! but dey're goin some, Matt!"
"So are we," screamed Matt, "Fifty-eight miles an hour."
"Ever race dat runabout afore?"
"Yes."