“Those fellows must have been in a desperate hurry, Bob, to take the milk train,” said the constable, as they jolted along side by side in the flivver.
“Hurry—on the milk?” laughed Bob.
“Well, I mean in a hurry to get out of town. Of course the train is a slow-poke, but they could get out of Cliffside on her, and that’s what they wanted, maybe.”
“That’s so,” agreed Bob. “I didn’t think of that”
“Think of what?” asked Caleb Tarton.
“Oh—nothing much. Hold fast now, here’s a bit of rough road.”
It was rough—so much so that at the speed which Bob drove all the constable could do was to hold on. And he didn’t dare open his mouth to ask questions for fear of biting off his tongue.
Which, perhaps, was Bob’s object. I’m not saying it was, but it would have been a good way to insure silence.
Then they got onto a smooth, concrete highway, leading directly to Perry Junction. A faint light was showing, now, in the east.
“Soon be sun-up, Bob,” remarked Mr. Tarton.