QUEER ACTIONS OF NO. 41
Dan stood silently, his teeth on his lower lip, his face heavy with
thought. Billy continued:
“How ever did Chance do it?”
“That’s where he went when he got up so early this morning at the inn.
He went to the gasoline station, bribed somebody there, and got the cans
filled with water. One thing is sure, we’ll make whoever helped him
suffer for it.”
“But what good will that do?” demanded Billy, “when we have lost the
race?”
“We haven’t lost the race!” snapped his brother.
“We’re stalled here, I tell you!” cried Billy, waving his arms
excitedly.
“I know it.”
“What are you going to do for power? How you going to get to the next
station—fly? You say the word and I’ll run all the way to the nearest
town and buy the gasoline, and bring it back in a wagon. But it will
take oceans of time.”
“I know it,” gritted Dan. “We’ve got to have it quicker than
that—listen!”
“Another car coming. Another set of joshers,” complained Billy, who did
not like being made a target for fun.
The car they heard was coming at full speed. Dan hesitated, and then
stepped around the drab car and looked up the road. The running
automobile appeared.
“Hooray!” yelled Billy. “It’s Mr. Briggs’ car. He’ll help us.”
The huge “forty-one” was plain upon the hood of the automobile. As it
came on, however, the chauffeur showed no intention of reducing speed.
This was not a bad bit of road where the Speedwell boys were stalled.
Car forty-one was evidently striving to make up some of the miles it had
lost on the previous day. It came on like the wind!
Dan and Billy both waved their hands. The car did not swerve, nor did
the chauffeur pay them the compliment of pulling down in the least.
The huge Postlethwaite swept on, was guided around the stalled car with
skill, and rushed past and on around the next curve in the road—and all
so quickly that the boys were speechless for a moment with surprise.
“Did you ever?” finally gasped Billy.
“Henri never even winked at us,” growled Dan.
“And if he had, you wouldn’t have seen that wink,” observed his brother,
with a nervous gasp. “Say! that was mean!”
“Of course, they didn’t have to stop.”
“No. But it wouldn’t have hurt Mr. Briggs to pull down for a moment.”
“He never even looked at us.”
“No. He sat in there beside Henri, ready to help him take the curves. I
never thought he’d be so mean,” complained Billy.
“Here’s another!” exclaimed his brother.
They turned to see a second automobile come around the bend in the road.
It was not going so fast. It was numbered thirty-seven.
Before it reached the Speedwells it slowed down and the man at the wheel
demanded:
“Did you see that maroon car just now?”
“Of course!” exclaimed Dan and Billy together.
“It was number forty-one, wasn’t it?” demanded the chauffeur of
thirty-seven, and he seemed very angry.
“Yes.”
“Well, we’re going to report that car. It ought to be barred out of the
race,” sputtered the man.
“What’s that?” gasped Dan, while Billy looked, open-mouthed, at the
angry automobilist.
“I tell you, it ought to be barred out,” cried the stranger, and his
companion agreed with a vigorous nod. “They come pretty near taking a
wheel off of us. Look at that scratch along the side of our car; will
you?”
“I see it,” admitted Dan, vastly puzzled.
“That maroon car did it,” cried the man. “It ought to be——”
“But say!” blurted out Billy. “That was Mr. Briggs’ car—Mr. Briggs who
started this endurance test—the man who offers the gold cup!”
“Mr. Raleigh Briggs!” cried the angry man.
“That’s the number of his car—forty-one,” Dan interposed, quickly.
“Well, he ought to be spoken to,” said the man, more mildly. “We were
giving him the right of the road as fast as possible; I never saw a man
drive so recklessly in all my life!”
The angry automobilist was driving on, when Dan said:
“By the way, can you let us have a gallon of juice? We are stalled——”
“Haven’t any to spare!” snapped the man, as he threw on his speed.
“Ha!” ejaculated Billy. “I wish Mr. Briggs had tipped him into the
ditch!”
“If it was Mr. Briggs,” muttered Dan, but his brother did not hear him.
“What’ll we do?” queried Billy again. “You don’t mean to stay here and
beg of every car you see, do you? They’ll all turn us down.”
“All these cars aren’t driven by such fellows,” growled Dan.
“But say! When Mr. Briggs himself would act so mean——”
“Here’s another!” cried Dan, and this time he leaped into the very
center of the road, determined to make the coming car slow down, at
least.
When it shot into sight Billy gave a sudden cheer.
“Number fifty-three! Oh, Dannie! that’s Mr. Robert!”
But at that word his brother stepped quickly out of the way. He could
not hold up Darringford, who had already been so kind to them. But the
young proprietor of the Darringford Machine Shops began to slow down as
soon as he saw that the drab car was in trouble.
“What’s the matter, boys?” he shouted, craning his head out of the car
to see them.
“Oh, Mr. Robert!” cried Billy, boldly. “Can you lend us a gallon of
gasoline?”
“What! gone stale between towns?” laughed the young man. “I am surprised
at you, boys.”
“It was not our fault, I assure you,” said Dan, quietly. “Somebody
played a trick on us. They filled our cans at Farmingdale with water
instead of gasoline.”
“Why! that’s a despicable trick,” declared Mr. Robert, as Dan opened one
of the cans and poured the water into the road.
“It has lost us nearly an hour already,” said Billy.
“It shall lose you no more time. Give me that empty can,” said Mr.
Robert, quickly. “Take one of our full ones. That’s right. Now, come on,
boys, and show me what your Breton-Melville can do!” and, the exchange
being made, he waved to his chauffeur to go on again.
And the Speedwells were not far behind him. They filled their tank after
draining out the water. They had to start slowly, and it took them
nearly an hour to run the next ten miles. Then they reached a gasoline
station and were very sure that the right fluid was run into their cans.
The Breton-Melville worked like a charmed car after that one accident.
On the long grade which they struck about eleven o’clock—the climb over
the mountain range—she acted perfectly. But eighteen miles an hour was
her best speed going up.
At the summit (they reached the Tip Top House at three) the boys halted
to overhaul their gear and oil up. They hoped to make Greenbaugh, in the
valley, before the end of their ten mile run; but they were eighty-seven
miles away. They had traveled already a hundred and forty-two miles from
the Holly Tree Inn. The trick Chance Avery had played them certainly had
set them back in this day’s running a good many miles!
But several of the early cars to start—the small numbers—had been passed
by the Speedwells; as they figured it coming up the mountain there were
only fifteen cars ahead of them, including number seven.
“And Mr. Briggs’ car,” added Billy. “She must be tearing down the
mountain already. Hey!” he called to one of the men working around the
stables, “has number forty-one passed on? Of course it has! How long
ago?”
“Number forty-one?” repeated the man, referring to a list of the cars he
carried in his pocket. “No, sir. She ain’t showed up yet.”
“Why, she passed us miles back!” cried Billy, and Dan looked up from his
work in surprise, too.
“No. She hasn’t come,” said the man, with confidence.
“Why—why—what does it mean?” gasped the younger Speedwell. “It can’t be
possible that we passed Mr. Briggs anywhere, and missed him.”
“He must be ahead of us,” agreed Dan.
“I know my list is right,” said the man. “I been noting every car that’s
in the race. You see how I’ve put a star against those that have got by.
Number forty-one ain’t one of ’em.”
“A big maroon car—a Postlethwaite,” suggested Dan.
“No, sir. Ain’t no maroon car gone through. I’m mighty sure of that!”
“Well, what do you know about that?” murmured Billy, staring at his
brother. “Think that was a delusion back there on the road? Maybe we
didn’t see Mr. Briggs’ car, either?”
“Maybe we didn’t,” replied Dan, gravely. “But I guess that man in
thirty-seven wouldn’t agree that it was a delusion that scratched up his
panels.”
“Whew! I should say not.”
At that moment the hostler with the checked list broke in on their
conversation.
“How far did you come to-day?” he asked.
“Hundred and forty miles,” grunted Billy. He wasn’t proud of their
speed.
“Then you slept at Farmingdale?”
“Yep.”
“Hear about the robbery of the postoffice there before you started?”
“No!” cried Billy. “Last night?”
“Yes. Cleaned it out. Three or four thousand dollars’ worth of stamps,
registered mail, and thirteen hundred dollars in cash. Nice little haul
for some band of robbers,” said the hostler.
He went away and Dan and Billy stared at each other for a moment. Billy
put his thoughts in words first:
“The maroon car stood in that bridge over the Farmingdale River last
night, when we came through. No honest car would have hidden there.”
“Where is Mr. Briggs and the real forty-one car?” demanded Dan.
“Oh, Dan! that couldn’t have been him who drove by us so fast this
morning.”
“And scratched number thirty-seven, too,” said Dan.
“It’s the other maroon car,” declared Billy, excitedly. “It’s the bank
robbers.”
“But where is Mr. Briggs?” demanded his brother, again.
“Goodness only knows. Those thieves are onto the fact that their car is
the mate to Mr. Briggs’ auto. It’s plain they are using that fact to
hide their tracks.”
“And meanwhile,” repeated Dan, for the third time, “what has happened to
Mr. Briggs?”
“I give it up!”
“I’m going to find out,” declared Dan. “Here! you ’tend to this. I want
to telephone.”
But when he ran in to the hotel office he found one of the racing
timekeepers there and from him he learned that Mr. Briggs’ car was
reported about fifty miles back on the road. It had suffered a
breakdown.
“Are you sure it’s his car?” demanded Dan. “I tell you that there is
another maroon car on the road.”
“Not in the list of racers,” said the timekeeper.
“No, sir. But are you sure it is Mr. Briggs that has broken down?”
“I just spoke to him over the telephone. I know him personally. I know
his voice.”
“Then there can be no mistake. But I believe that there is another
maroon car running under Mr. Briggs’ number,” and Dan explained briefly
what he knew about the car belonging to, or used by, the men who had
robbed Mr. Sudds and the Farmers’ Bank.
“This robbery of the postoffice at Farmingdale last night,” continued
Dan Speedwell, “looks very much like the work of the same crowd, too.
Besides, my brother and I are quite sure that these men passed us on the
road this morning. It was not Mr. Briggs in that maroon car, that is
sure. He would have stopped and spoken to us when he saw that we were
stalled.”
“I’ll send your information up and down the line,” promised the
timekeeper. “But there certainly has been no maroon car past here—in
either direction—to-day, or yesterday.”
When Dan got back to the car, Billy already had her cranked up. They ran
swiftly out into the highway, reached the down grade, shut off power,
and began to coast. For some ten or fifteen miles the map showed that
the road into the valley was very crooked; they dared not put much power
to their car. And sometimes when she merely coasted, the speedometer
showed a forty-five and fifty mile an hour pace!
Eighty-seven miles in an hour and three-quarters—that was the work cut
out for them. Half of it was down grade, at least; but it was only when
they were within twenty miles of the foot of the mountain that the
Speedwells were able to let her out and show just what the
Breton-Melville car could do on a gentle slope, and on a good road.
They took that stretch of twenty miles in seventeen minutes!
At the end of that sharp run Billy counted on his fingers and declared
that there were but eight cars ahead of them.
It was four o’clock when they drove through New Hapsburg at a twelve
mile an hour rate. Suddenly they came upon a car around which there was
quite a crowd. It was one of the contesting machines, Dan and Billy
knew, and as they shut off their engine they heard several wrangling
voices in the crowd.
“I tell ye I don’t care anything about no race!” cried one harsh voice.
“You’re under arrest for exceeding the speed limit through the streets
of this here city.”
“Another Josiah Somes!” chuckled Billy. “What car is it that’s pinched?”
“My goodness, that’s Burton Poole standing up there and waving his
pocketbook,” cried Dan.
“Oh, glory!” shouted Billy. “It’s number seven.”
Then they saw Chance Avery. His face was red, and he was too angry for
words. He saw the Breton-Melville car sliding past and he undoubtedly
had heard Billy’s joyous exclamation. If looks could burst a tire, Dan
and Billy would have had a bad blow-out right there!
“It won’t hold them long,” said Dan, as their car pulled past the crowd.
“Burton will pay the fine and they’ll come after us. Their time isn’t
up, it’s likely, before half-past five. They will reach Greenbaugh if we
do.”
“And we’re going to reach it,” acclaimed Billy, cheerfully. “Here’s the
town line, Dannie. Let her go!”