The boy pleaded and coaxed. There was no reason why he should be delayed; he was going moderately fast, but not at any rate of speed that could be considered illegal. None of his arguments, however, appeared to have the slightest effect upon the little man on the rear seat. Occasionally a low, chuckling laugh escaped him. The lines around his eyes deepened.
“When you git finished start ’er up,” he commanded, firmly.
And Tom, fairly boiling over with indignation, “started up.”
He squared his shoulders; his jaws clicked together.
“And it’s all on account of that miserable Victor Collins,” he muttered. “Never mind! I haven’t been touched out at first yet. Wait till I get before the justice!”
Tom had so many thoughts to keep his mind occupied that the next town emerged into view through the gloomy haze ahead with surprising suddenness.
“South Milwaukee,” announced a gruff voice from the rear.
Tom scorned to reply.
The hum of smoothly-working machinery, the soft whirr of wheels and the chant and moan of the wind were the only sounds which broke the silence as the distance became less and less.
Finally the motor car was on the principal street of the town. Tom had been expecting every instant to receive orders to proceed at once to the hall where justice held full sway, but, so far, the little man, beyond hailing several acquaintances with considerable enthusiasm, had remained silent.