“Sho, dat am sartingly a fine trip. Yes, suh, de way am clear.”
Tom Clifton’s hand trembled a little as he laid it on the steering wheel. Without the presence of the others to strengthen his courage the task of driving the car through the city streets assumed more formidable proportions than he liked. But, giving the button on the dash a push, he muttered, determinedly:
“I’ll play the game right to the end.”
In another instant the echoes of the engine’s rapid pulsation thundered through the garage. A cloud of gasoline vapor swirled aloft, to lose itself among the rafters. The clutch was thrown on.
“So-long, Benjamin!”
“So-long, Mistah! I done hopes yo hab a bully trip.”
The big touring car slid easily past the doorway; a series of warning blasts from the horn sounded, and Tom was on the street.
Once outside, with the machine responding to his slightest touch, he soon began to feel a little easier in mind. Yet how empty the car seemed! How he missed the cheery voices and merry laughter of his companions! Why had they allowed themselves to be so influenced by Victor—why?
And then the thought that he had acted too impulsively flashed through Tom’s mind.
“Suppose I should find ’em at the hotel? They’d have a jolly good laugh at my expense, after all,” he reflected.