“By George, that’s a comical one for you,” said Tom, to himself. “I feel just like a chap who has beaten the ball to first. Ha, ha! I wasn’t scorching, though; that is, not when he saw me. But still”—he smiled rather grimly—“I’d better be on the safe side and crawl the rest of the way.”
Once more the machine was in motion. South Milwaukee soon fell far behind and within a half hour he was approaching the city. A confused mass of buildings, and an occasional chimney rising high above them, lifted themselves faintly from obscurity. Here and there factory smoke raced with the low-hanging clouds and deepened their lowering surfaces into a still darker tone.
Tom paid no heed to the depressing air of gloom which seemed to pervade all nature. He was too anxious to reach the East Water Street bridge and bring his lonely trip to a close.
And suppose the motor yacht “Fearless” should not be there, after all?
This unpleasant thought, occasionally penetrating Tom’s armor of confidence, brought an expression of deep concern to his face.
“Well, in that case, I suppose I’ll have to play the game some more,” he sighed. “Anyway, it’s up to me to make good; and I will.”
The outskirts were quickly passed. The scattering array of houses gave place to thickly built up sections, which, as he progressed, became more and more lively. At length Tom drove along Kinnikinnic Avenue, finally crossing the river of the same name. Then the motor car swung into Clinton Street, and, on a straight road, leaped forward, overtaking and nosing past every vehicle bound in the same direction.
Tom, in his impatience, forgot all self-consciousness, handling the car with a skill almost equal to that of Bob Somers’. His heart was beating high with hope and expectancy.
A deep, hoarse whistle vibrating over the air told of traffic on the Milwaukee River. The sound brought with it, too, the pleasing message that his goal was almost reached.
Within a few minutes he would know—what?