"The road to
Clayton is a poor one, and we'll soon be on it. Then we'll have
to go slow. But I'll make all the time I can until then."
So, for several miles more they crept along, at times having to
reduce to almost a walking pace, because of bad roads. Mr. Damon
looked at his watch almost every other minute.
"Eleven o'clock," he remarked, as they passed a milestone, "and
we're not half way there. Bless my gizzard, but I'm afraid we
won't make it, Tom. We left about ten, and we ought to be back by
two o'clock to do any good. That's four hours, and it will take
some time to transfer the securities, and get the cash. Every
minute counts."
"I know it," answered Tom, "and I'm going to count every
minute."
With eager eyes he watched every inch of the road, to steer to
the best advantage. His hands gripped the wheel until his
knuckles showed white with the strain, and, every now and then
his right hand adjusted the speed lever or the controller handle,
while his foot was on the emergency brake, ready to stop the car
at the first sign of danger.
And there was danger, not infrequently, for the road was up and
down hill, over frail bridges, and along steep cliffs.
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