Jack and Tom sped along on their way to Nestorville pleasantly enough,
but just as they were entering the little town there came a sudden
ominous cracking sound from the rear of the machine.
“Something’s smashed!” exclaimed Tom, as Jack quickly brought the car to
a standstill.
“That’s right,” agreed Jack; “just get out and see what it is, will you,
Tom?”
But Tom was already out of the machine. Down on his knees in the dust he
got, and soon found out what had happened.
“A stay rod has parted,” he announced; “it’s that one we welded. I guess
we didn’t use heat enough.”
“Glad it’s nothing worse,” rejoined Jack; “we’ll make a stop at the
blacksmith’s and get it rewelded; he has a machine for that purpose.”
“Wonder how long that will take?” questioned Tom, who had given a glance
up at the sky.
“Oh, hardly any time at all. Why?”
“See those black clouds in the north. Looks as if we were in for a
storm. The air feels heavy, too.”
“Well, a heavy rainstorm will do a lot of good and won’t hurt us. The
whole country’s as dry as an old bone.”
“That’s what. But I was thinking of that stretch of clay road on our way
back. If much rain falls that will be as sticky as a tub full of glue.”
“Oh, we’ll be back long before the storm breaks,” said Jack confidently.
But the welding job took a little longer than they thought it would, and
as they set out on their return journey the sky was as black as a slate,
and little sharp puffs of wind were driving the dust in whirling
“devils” through the streets. As they rolled away from the blacksmith’s
shop, one or two large drops pattered down on the folded gas envelope
above their heads.
The boys didn’t bother about this, however, and sped along while the
rain fell faster and faster. At last they reached the stretch of clay
road, which was about two miles from their home.
“Have to put on full power,” decided Jack, turning on more of the
radolite gas. The motor puffed and snorted as the Flying Road Racer
labored through the heavy blue clay, but it didn’t stall and,
considering the nature of the going, good speed was made.
But if they succeeded in avoiding being stalled, others were not so
fortunate; As they came puffing around a bend in the heavy, sticky road,
they saw, through the rain, that a big yellow touring car was stuck in
the middle of the highway, and all the efforts of the two men operating
were unavailing to force it through the mire.
As the Flying Road Racer came chugging through the mud, one of the men
looked around and hailed the boys. His was a somewhat heavy-set figure,
muffled in a red rubber rain coat. From under his goggles there streamed
an immense red beard. His companion, so far as the boys could see, was
slighter of figure and dark, with a small moustache almost hiding a
thin-lipped mouth.
“Hey, you kids,” hailed the red-bearded one, in a deep, rather rough
voice, “get us out of this, will you?”
“What’s the trouble?” asked Jack, slowing up. Although he was not best
pleased at the other’s sharp mode of address, he felt that it was his
duty to do what he could to aid two fellow motorists in distress.
“You can see what the trouble is, can’t you?” exclaimed the
black-moustached man; “we’re stalled, stuck, in this infernal clay.”
“Got a rope?” asked Jack; “we’ll try and give you a tow out of it. We’re
likely to get stuck ourselves, though.”
“Not much danger of that, with such a car as yours,” responded the
red-bearded man, fumbling in the tool box of his car in search of a
rope, such as most autos carry nowadays for just such emergencies. He
finally found it, and came toward the boys’ car, which Jack had stopped.
But the engine was still turning over rather rapidly.
“That’s a powerful motor you have there,” said the stranger, placing one
foot on the running board and speaking in a rather patronizing tone,
which didn’t much appeal to either of the boys; “what make of car is
that?”
“It’s our own invention,” responded Tom quickly, rather too quickly, in
fact, for the red-bearded man responded instantly, and with a curious
inflection in his tones:
“Oh, is that so? I shouldn’t wonder, now, if you two are the Boy
Inventors the papers have printed so much about. And this is the Flying
Road Racer, eh? Umph! How does it work?”
“That’s rather a secret for the present,” said Jack, who resented the
man’s dictatorial tone and inquisitive manner; “anyhow, if we are going
to haul you out of this, we’d better start now before the road gets
soaked any more.”
“Oh, all right. No offence meant,” answered the red-bearded man, and
immediately busied himself attaching one end of the rope to the rear
axle of the boys’ car. Then Jack moved ahead, and the other end of the
tow line was made fast to the stalled auto.
This done the men got into their car, the red-bearded man taking the
wheel.
“Now, then!” he shouted, as he turned on his power.
Jack did the same, and after a minute of indecision the Flying Road
Racer began to move ahead, dragging the yellow car after it. In a few
minutes both autos were safely through the heavy, sticky clay, and on
the hard road beyond.
“Thanks,” said the red-bearded autoist, as the yellow car gained solid
ground, “and now you can do us another favor if you don’t mind. Are we
on the right road to Pokeville?”
Jack nodded.
“Straight ahead till you come to a place called Smith’s Corners,” he
said; “you cross a bridge beyond that and then turn to the right.”
“Know anybody in Pokeville?” asked the black-moustached man; “ever hear
of a Mr. Pythias Peregrine?”
“The inventor?” inquired Jack:
“That’s our man—I mean I’ve often heard of him,” said the red-bearded
one; “I reckon now he’s got quite a place there. Lots of servants and
all that?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” rejoined Jack, wondering what interest the two
men could have in the eccentric inventor.
“Well, don’t you know anything about his habits? Does he live near his
workshops?”
“As I said before, I don’t really know much about Mr. Peregrine,”
replied Jack, wondering more and more what could be the object of all
these questions.
“Then you haven’t heard anything about a new invention of his? Something
he is designing for the government?”
It was on the tip of Jack’s tongue to say that they were going over to
Pokeville the very next day in connection with this identical thing; but
some instinct checked him. He could not have told why for the life of
him, but somehow he mistrusted these two men in the yellow auto. So in
reply he merely shook his head.
“Well, we’ve got to be getting on,” said the red-bearded one, as the
rain came down harder than ever; “many thanks for your help, and
good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” responded both boys, and the yellow auto chugged off down
the road through the rain.
A minute later Jack started his machine, and whizzed along after them.
But badly as the yellow auto had behaved in the mud, it proved a flyer
on the road. It maintained its lead, its occupants from time to time
turning their heads and looking back at the two lads in the Flying Road
Racer. As the boys turned into the gate of High Towers the yellow car
was still speeding through the downpour, as if it were on very urgent
business indeed.
“What do you think of those chaps?” asked Tom, as they sped up the
driveway.
“I hardly know what to say,” said Jack; “they may be just two tourists
going through the country, as they implied, or they may be—something
quite different. I don’t know why, but I didn’t half like that
red-whiskered chap.”
“Nor did I,” was the prompt rejoinder.
“Why?”
“Oh, just like you, I don’t know why. But there was something about both
of them that gave me the idea that they are not all that they seemed to
be.”
“Same here. They must have had some object, too, in making all those
inquiries about Mr. Peregrine. I wonder what it could be?”
“Hasn’t it occurred to you that a man like him, the possessor of a
valuable invention, might have some rivals who would like to find out
just along what lines he has been working?”
“It certainly has,” rejoined Jack, as he ran the Flying Road Racer into
its shed. “I won’t forget to tell Mr. Peregrine about our encounter when
we see him to-morrow.”
“That’s a good idea,” assented Tom.