smile upon his lips--he had faced the leveled rifles of the three he

had ridden down and he had not quailed. But now, his machine in the

center of the road again, he shook like a leaf, still in the grip of

the sickening nausea of that awful moment when the mighty, insensate

monster beneath him had reeled drunkenly in its mad flight, swerving

toward the ditch and destruction.

For a few minutes he held to his rapid pace before he looked around,

and then it was to see two cars climbing into the road from the

encampment in the field and heading toward him in pursuit. Barney

grinned. Once more he was master of his nerves. They'd have a merry

chase, he thought, and again he accelerated the speed of the car.

Once before he had had it up to seventy-five miles, and for a

moment, when he had had no opportunity to even glance at the

speedometer, much higher. Now he was to find the maximum limit of

the possibilities of the brave car he had come to look upon with

real affection.

The road ahead was comparatively straight and level. Behind him

came the enemy. Barney watched the road rushing rapidly out of sight

beneath the gray fenders. He glanced occasionally at the

speedometer. Seventy-five miles an hour. Seventy-seven! "Going

some," murmured Barney as he saw the needle vibrate up to eighty.

Gradually he nursed her up and up to greater speed.

Eighty-five! The trees were racing by him in an indistinct blur of

green. The fences were thin, wavering lines--the road a white-gray

ribbon, ironed by the terrific speed to smooth unwrinkledness. He

could not take his eyes from the business of steering to glance

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