“Some faster than this. But Lucy can——”
“Let us not discuss the matter, please.”
“I can’t have her?”
“I beg, Mr. Fraser, I beg you to center your attention on driving your machine.”
“Well, I will, then. I’ll drive her,” said the boy, grimly, “good and fast.” They came again to the open, but the road continued hard and broad, with only long curves around the base of a hill now and then. The wind blew the old lady’s hair into disarray, her dress was gray with dust, her eyes smarted terribly; she gave from time to time a little gasp—or was it a laugh?—and clutched at Archie’s arm, which held so rigid and strong to the tiller wheel. “This’ll be her finish, all right,” he thought. “Cross old cat. Scared?” he asked of her.
“I beg pardon?”
“You’re not scared, I suppose?” he said, mockingly.
“I have been accustomed to fast driving, Mr. Fraser, all my life.”
It was because she made that reply that Archie, quite desperate by now, dared what finally did occur. And this was occasioned by his spying in the distance another big car headed as he was, but moving less rapidly. In a minute he was alongside, and jammed on the brakes. The other driver, who was heavily mustached, red-faced and had three airy young damsels stowed in the tonneau, looked up in surprise.
“Hello, Isidore!”