Up to the limit of speed allowed by law dashed the motor car, Tom eagerly straining his eyes for the first glimpse of the East Water Street bridge, which, according to his map, must be just ahead.
“Ah ha; there it is!”
The draw was opening to allow a boat to pass. Tom saw the great arms of the structure rising higher and higher against the sky. To the left the bold, impressive lines of a whaleback steamer loomed up, with flags on its fore and aft masts straightened out in the wind.
Presently the dull, leaden-looking water of the Milwaukee River flashed into view. At the East Water Street bridge its course toward Lake Michigan changes to a southeasterly direction. Another moment, and Tom’s eyes were roving swiftly over the stream.
A pang of bitter disappointment shot through him—the “Fearless” was not in sight.
He threw out the clutch and the motor car stopped.
“Stung again, maybe!” groaned the chauffeur. He sat motionless for an instant, deep in thought, then mumbled, “What a silly chump I am! Come to think of it, Captain Bunderley said ‘Near the bridge.’ I can’t do much scouting around in this car, so I’ll shoot it over to the nearest garage and sprint right back.”
A boy, in answer to his inquiries, directed him to cross the bridge and keep straight on until Wisconsin Street was reached.
“Guess you’ll find one along there,” he said. “Say, ain’t that a whopping big machine! How much do you get a week for running it?”
“Twice as much as nothing,” answered Tom, with a faint grin.