"Never mind, we're more than half-way up," said Starrett, consolingly.
"Do you suppose it's sandy like this near Curtin Harbor?" inquired Charley.
"I haven't the least idea," Starrett replied. "If it is, we can branch off and take the cars at Minot Station."
"The cars? Why, Starrett Van Rensselaer!" exclaims Charley. "Why, I wouldn't take the cars—not for anything—unless—well, unless I were fairly driven to it."
And now they both draw a long breath, for the crest of Comstock Hill is won.
"Look behind you, Starrett," says Charley. "Did you ever see a prettier picture?"
Starrett acknowledges he never did. The low-lying valley is green and fair. The Owassee stretches like a silver ribbon across the picture, and there is not a human being in sight save these two tricyclers who take all this summer beauty into their impressible young hearts.
On they go, through Fisherville and into the open country again. Truly no grass grows underneath those flashing wheels. The new "Columbia" has the oil well worked in by this time, and the "Royal Mail," with its queer one-sided "steerer," seems undisturbed by any ordinary roads. The freshening wind is behind them; the blue sky, cloud-flecked, above; and all around, bird-song and the rustle of blowing grass and bending boughs.
"This is grand, Charley!" cries Starrett; "so much better than horseback riding—and I've tried both."
"You don't tire yourself much more, and you're sure your horse won't run away with you," Charley assents, whizzing along beside him. "I feel strong enough for a good long run yet, and we ought to catch up with them easily, before long."