As they passed the common a quick glance at the clock in the Town Hall gave them the time. It was just eight minutes to seven. “You’ll be cold,” said Tom, as he noted that Willard had no overcoat on. “No, I won’t; not very. There wasn’t time to find anything.” Willard dropped his voice. “How badly is he hurt, Tom?” “I don’t know. The telegram didn’t say. It just said ‘seriously injured.’ He’s in the hospital, though, and I guess it’s pretty bad.” Their way took them down River Street, past the station, over the bridge and then sharply to the right along a country road that followed the river for five or six miles. It was a fair road, when in good condition, but lack of rain for many days had placed a two-inch deposit of dust on it and hollowed out many chuck-holes. But this was no time to consider comfort, and, once in the Fountain Road, Tom pulled the throttle wide open, and, with the searchlights boring a dim yellow path into the gloom of early evening, The Ark bounced and lurched onward at break-neck speed. “What do you suppose we’re making?” gasped Willard once, above the hum of the engine and the spatter of the exhaust. He was holding on to the arm of the seat to keep from bumping against his companion. “Thirty, anyway; thirty-five, I hope,” answered Tom, clinging to the wheel. “It’s the best she can do, whatever it is,” he added grimly. “We turn pretty soon, don’t we?” “Yes, at the three corners. I’m watching for it. There it is now. Hold hard!” The car lurched wildly to the left, scraping the bushes beside the way, and straightened out again in the middle of the road. “It’s plain sailing now to Potterstown,” said Tom. “We’ll have to ask when we get there. What’s he doing?” Willard stole a look at the passenger. “Nothing,” he answered. “Just sitting there. I guess he’s feeling pretty bad.” A mile further on Willard gave voice to the fear that had been nagging him all along. “Say, Tom, suppose we met a wagon or something. What would happen? There isn’t room to pass, is there?” “I don’t know,” answered the other calmly. “Hope so.” He didn’t slow down his speed, however, and Willard, smothering a sigh, leaned back again. The road wound through fields and woods, with here and there, at long intervals, a farm-house showing a dim light from a window or two. Fortunately there were no steep grades, although they had been gradually ascending ever since leaving the river. But the road was scarcely wide enough for two teams to pass save with caution and Willard’s uneasiness was excusable. Luck, however, was with them mile after mile. In the rear seat Mr. Connors, braced in a corner, was bounced and shaken as the car swayed and bounded along with every spring and bolt complaining. They were almost at Potterstown when Willard gave a cry of warning. Into the field of light ahead, where the narrow road turned to the right about the foot of a hill pasture, suddenly came a vehicle.