Victor Collins experienced a delightful sense of ease and comfort as he watched the passing show with all the zest and interest that novelty often brings.
“Go it, Somers, go it!” he urged. “Whoop it up like sixty!”
“Restraint and caution should ever be the chauffeur’s watchword,” drawled Dave.
“That’s what I think, too,” approved Charlie.
“In cities they always have so many laws to bother a chap,” grumbled Tom. “Why, when we were in Wyoming——”
“Oh, forget it, son,” interrupted Victor. “This beats all your old cowboy business to pieces.”
The residential section of Michigan Avenue had been passed. The motor car was now swinging along by the side of Grant Park. Out over the lake they could see that the stiff breeze was kicking up the water into choppy waves and tossing about several small boats whose sails cut crisply white against the background. The far-reaching stretch of water, in the early morning light, became lost in a scintillating haze which dazzled the eye.
“The clouds are piling up,” remarked Dave. “I guess we’ll have some stormy weather soon.”
A succession of views passed so rapidly that the eye could take in only their salient features. Almost before they realized it the boys were being carried across the Chicago River. One look showed them an insignificant tug struggling valiantly with a huge, clumsy barge, a myriad of masts, a kaleidoscopic effect of hulls, docks and buildings, with here and there clouds of smoke and steam. Then all was whirled behind them.
“What time shall we get to Kenosha, Somers?” demanded Victor.