Little by little he let the car out, and the iron barriers came threateningly into view. When a hundred feet away from them the car was going so fast that the gates seemed to be jumping toward it.
But the purpose of his daring comrade was clear to McGlory, and the idea left him gasping.
Matt was going to storm the gates! He was hurling the red car toward them like a cannon ball.
The cowboy fell limply down behind the front seats, wondering vaguely where he and Matt would be after the smash.
Even as the thought formed in his mind, there came a crash, a jar that shook the automobile in every part, and made it reel drunkenly, and a clash of broken glass. After a wild stagger, the car seemed to gather itself for a spring; then it flung itself onward into the road, turned, and glided off on the straightaway.
Dazed and bewildered, McGlory lifted himself in the rocking tonneau and looked at Matt, who was still in the driver’s seat, still bending over the wheel, and still coaxing the demoralized red flyer to its best gait.
Certainly the car was demoralized—not internally, for the motor was doing its work nobly—but the bonnet was bent and broken, the lamps were smashed, and the woodwork splintered and scarred.
“Sufferin’ earthquakes!” gasped McGlory, looking back at the gates.
The gates had been torn ajar, and one of them had been plucked bodily off the brick pier from which it had swung.
“Are you hurt, pard?” cried McGlory.