As the journey approached its end Tom Clifton’s impatience increased. Several times he drove the car for short stretches at a clip which almost rivaled his first daring attempt at speeding. Another village was passed, and then another. Some distance to his right an occasional column of rapidly-moving smoke or jets of steam marked the progress of north or south-bound trains.
“Easy job—I didn’t have any trouble finding the way,” grinned Tom. “One look at our road map was enough. By George; it’s a lucky thing, too, that I remember the place where Captain Bunderley said his motor yacht was always moored at Milwaukee. ‘Right by the East Water Street bridge, boys,’—those were his very words. She ought to have arrived by this time. And I know how to steer the machine there straight as a carrier pigeon scoots for home.”
“Hey there, young feller!”
The motor car was nearing an intersecting road. It bore an appearance strangely similar to numerous others passed that day, but whereas they had generally been deserted on this particular one he saw a small slight man of uncertain age sprinting toward him at a lively rate of speed.
“Hey there, young feller!” came the hail a second time.
In obedience to the authoritative summons, Tom slowed up, stopping just as the man, breathing hard, reached the main road.
CHAPTER X
THE CONSTABLE
The Rambler’s gaze rested upon an odd-looking man who wore a gray beard. His skin was tanned to a coppery color; around his eyes innumerable wrinkles had formed, giving to his face a curious quizzical expression.
“Goodness—a county constable!” thought Tom.
The first words he heard confirmed this unpleasant suspicion.