“By George! And never even ruffled a feather!” cried Tom, in great relief.
The village was quickly passed. On reaching a bend a stretch of almost straight road lay before him. The country looked very deserted and lonely. Here and there a house, far off in the fields, patches of trees, or the crooked line of a fence alone broke the monotonous landscape.
The temptation to “burn up the road” was too great to resist. Tom threw on power until the telegraph poles seemed to be literally hurling themselves through space toward him. He had certainly recovered his nerve, a fact on which he proudly congratulated himself.
But the thrills produced by the terrific speed were of no ordinary kind, causing him before long to slow down considerably.
“Gee! Now I’ve done it, I won’t do it again,” he muttered, with all the elation of a chauffeur who has captured a world’s record. “Awful risky, that! Maybe Bob Somers wouldn’t have opened his eyes. Hello—Racine!”
Beyond an open field houses were coming into view, and still further beyond several church spires pierced the lowering atmosphere.
At a moderate speed, Tom kept on, while evidences that a busy, thriving town lay ahead constantly increased. Before long the machine was rolling over a wide, pleasant avenue lined with houses set some distance apart, many having fine lawns in front.
As the character of the street changed so did Tom’s feelings. When the livelier sections of the city were reached nervousness once again had him in its grip. But, with firm determination, he mastered the tremors which, for a time, threatened to interfere with his manipulation of the steering wheel.
“Easy, boy—easy!” he counseled to himself.
The big machine was rounding a corner which reminded him of the one in Kenosha. “Main Street,” he read on a near-by sign.