"I don't see no diff'rence in de runnin'."
"Well, something is sure to go wrong, just as it did before. One grain of sand clogged the needle-valve, Josh, and there's a thousand more grains to come down the supply-pipe. Face around a minute. The road forks here. Which one shall we take? Do you remember coming this way?"
The boy flopped around in his seat. The Red Flier was rushing toward a place where the road forked. Both roads were bordered by rocky walls, and both had the appearance of being equally well traveled—which wasn't saying much for the travel, at that.
"I don't remember nuttin'," answered the boy, "bein' scart stiff all de w'ile I was in de runabout. I'd say go t' de right. Dat's always a good t'ing t' do."
"If we had the least notion which way Fairview lay we could shape our course a little better. But we don't know, so we'll take chances and go to the right."
There was a slowing of speed while Matt made the turn. For a long distance this fork was a straightaway stretch and fairly level. Matt and Josh were congratulating themselves on the fact that they had made a fortunate choice, when suddenly they whirled out on a vista that surprised them.
At the end of the straightaway stretch, a sudden angle brought the side of a steep mountain under the boy's eyes. The road could be seen clinging to the mountain's side, describing horseshoe after horseshoe—edging its way between dizzy chasms and high cliffs.
"Wow!" gasped Josh, and collapsed in his seat. "Right here's w'ere we fall off de eart'."
Matt took another look behind. The runabout, with the stern, relentless face of Brisco over the wheel, was surging toward them.
"Here we go!" called Matt. "Hang on, Josh!"