Uncle Tom was a grafter, but nevertheless Matt had a warm place in his heart for the old fellow. His peculiarities were all on the humorous side, and Matt could have enjoyed his talk if circumstances had been different.
While Matt was striding onward, his thoughts keeping pace with his swift gait, he heard suddenly the hum of a motor in the distance.
All motors have the same sort of music. The tempo changes with work at the throttle, but a trained ear can follow the shifting gears; and, now and then, there’s a man who will recognize his car by the croon of the engine alone.
It seemed to Matt that there was something familiar in the sound he heard.
The road, for a long distance at that particular point, lay in a straight stretch.
The car was coming toward Matt, but the trees on either side of the road made the approaching machine indistinct. Their boughs dropped low, and the deep shadows of the westering sun lay heavily across the thoroughfare.
Suddenly Matt caught a glimpse of white flashing in the gloom.
The runabout! ran his startled thought.
Yes, undoubtedly it was the strange hoodoo car that was approaching.