With that our three friends had nothing to do. They had piled into the carriage, Millionaire No. 1 with them, and likewise the captain, to make sure that they weren’t arrested for fast driving. And away they rattled down the street.
“Christopher Street—seven minutes!” roared Chauncey. “For your life—bah Jove!”
After which there was fun to spare. New York streets aren’t made for race tracks, and the way that carriage swayed and bumped was a caution. The driver had taken them at their word and was going for dear life. Three times the captain had to lean out of the window to quell some policeman who was shouting at them to slow up.
As for the plebes, there was nothing for them to do but sit still and wait in trembling anxiousness. Chauncey’s uncle had a watch in his hand with the aid of which he told off the streets and the seconds.
“If we make it,” said he, “we won’t have ten seconds to spare. Faster, there, faster!”
The poor cadets nearly had heart failure at that.
“If we miss it,” groaned Mark, “we are gone forever. The whole story’ll come out and we’ll be expelled sure as we’re alive. What time did you say it was?”
“Drive, there, drive!” roared Chauncey.
All things come to an end. Those that haven’t will some day. It seemed an age to the suffering plebes, but that drive was over at last. And the end of it was so terrible that they would have preferred the suspense.
The carriage was yanked up and brought to stop in front of the ferry gates just as the boat was gliding from her slip.