The weather was still threatening. A stiff, cold breeze constantly blowing in his face made the goggles very acceptable indeed, and he had found it prudent to put on his heavier coat. Now and again he caught glimpses of Lake Michigan. Far out on the great body of agitated water he could see tossing whitecaps gleaming like silver against the gray background of choppy waves.
“Shouldn’t wonder if I got caught in an awful blow before long,” he said aloud, somewhat anxiously.
At times the route took him not far from the Chicago and Northwestern Railroad. Occasionally trains thundered by, their whistles sending shrieking blasts that died out in throbbing echoes over the dreary landscape.
Tom felt an almost irresistible impulse to throw on all power and race these defiant-looking iron monsters, but thoughts of the law and of sharp-eyed constables deterred him.
At length a village sprang into view ahead. On closer inspection it seemed to have the usual accompaniments of barking dogs, cackling geese, and countless chickens.
Only by the narrowest margin were several terrible casualties among the bird family averted that day. Tom’s heart beat fast with apprehension as a small army of geese, led by an ancient gander, suddenly swooped directly in the path of the oncoming machine.
The fierce yells of a blue-shirted man leaning against a fence did not help to ease his troubled spirit.
“Great Scott!”
The words broke impulsively from Tom’s lips, as, with frantic haste, he operated the steering wheel.
For an instant he expected to hear an awful cackling ringing in his ears. But the big touring car swerved sufficiently to clear the rear guard of frantically flying legs.