Victor saw him being carried swiftly around the bend, the lantern over his arm swaying violently, and heard the sound of pounding hoofs growing faint in the distance.
It wrung from his lips a cry of admiration.
“By George, but that chap has wonderful nerve!”
Meanwhile, all of Dave Brandon’s skill in horsemanship was called into play. The spirited black horse, frantic with fear, galloped furiously along the slippery road, while Dave, jolted and shaken, sawed hard on the leather straps of the halter.
“Look out!” he yelled.
His ringing voice was added to the warning of clattering hoofs.
Two dusky forms edged with sharp lights from the rays of their lanterns sprang hastily to the side of the road as the apparent runaway bore down upon them. Another, further in advance, loping along at remarkable speed—Joe Rodgers, in a desperate sprint to capture the promised quarter—was seen to stumble.
Dave had a vision of a lantern performing some remarkable evolutions, and knew, more by impressions than actual sight, that Joe Rodgers had taken a header to safety in the mud.
And all this time the red lantern on the back of Spudger’s vehicle was growing larger and stronger. A mass of formless dark, with surprising suddenness, resolved itself into the shape of a buggy and trotting horse.
As Dave sped past he heard loud exclamations and yells in Peter Whiffin’s familiar voice. Then he was plunging on and on into the blackness, with nothing but an occasional gleam of electric flame to light the way.