On long, straight stretches, George drove as fast as he dared, and Aleck, who was getting used to the sensation, made no protest, but, wet and miserable, huddled back in an effort to protect himself from the pelting rain.
“Well, I certainly am disgusted,” declared George, at length. “I couldn’t be wetter—could you?”
“Not if the river was to roll up and spill all over me,” sighed Aleck, ruefully. “Nice looking messes we are to go to Poughkeepsie. What shall we do when we get there?”
“Leave the auto in a garage I know of; then wait for the ‘Gray Gull.’ She ought to be along by early evening.”
“Who’s going to take the auto back to Nyack?”
“Pierre, or myself. Remember, Aleck, it’s my machine.”
Another hour passed, and George uttered a sigh of satisfaction.
“Not much further, now,” he said. “See, there’s the Great Poughkeepsie railroad bridge.”
“Gee whiz, it’s high and it’s long,” said Aleck, with interest. “Looks pretty faint through the rain, doesn’t it?”
“Yes; and there’s a ferry-boat coming in. We’ll be just in time to get across.”