"W'ch winned?"
"The Flier—by a fluke. I scattered glass in the road—the runabout got into it and went lame."
"Got any glass along now?"
"Yes, in the tonneau; but——"
"None dere now, cull."
"Then Brisco must have thrown it out. It'll all right, though. This is going to be our race."
"We'd better keep our lamps skinned f'r Fairview. It's on'y seventy-five miles from w'ere we started, an we're goin' so fast we might run past de place an' never see it."
Josh felt hilarious. His panic was leaving him and his usual nerve was coming back.
"How's the runabout coming?" roared Matt.
"Gainin'!" whooped the boy. "Oh, sister, how she's comin'! Wisht I had some glass."