Eves chatted with the genial Irishman during the few minutes in which Templeton was making his final preparations. These completed, Templeton ran the machine out into the roadway. It was a strange-looking object. The body was little more than a skeleton framework, affording seating accommodation for three, and the necessary protection for the working parts. The drive was on the front wheels; the steering gear connected with the back wheels. A strong single mast was stayed just behind the driver’s seat. A bowsprit projected some five feet beyond the radiator. There were two sails, mainsail and jib. As Templeton unfurled these, Eves noticed that the former had been recently patched. "Torn in a gale, Bob?" he asked. "No. The other day a wretched farm wagon claimed more than its fair share of the road, and as of course I wouldn’t give way there was what some people call a contretemps. Look here, Tom, you must manage the mainsail; I can deal with the jib. Get in: we’ve no time to spare." Templeton got into the driver’s seat, the other two men into the seats behind. The car was started on petrol, and ran at a moderate pace over the half-mile of narrow road that led to the main street of the little town. Dodging the market traffic, Templeton steered the car out at the further end, and as soon as he was clear of the town slowed down and gave the word to hoist the sails. These bellied out in the brisk following wind; the strange vehicle gathered way; and, looking over his shoulder with a smile of gratification, Templeton said: "Now we’re off. Look out for gybing at the corners, Tom." *III* Templeton’s road yacht had been for a week or two a fairly familiar object in the neighbourhood, and the few country folk on foot whom it met or passed in the first few minutes of its voyage graced it with no more attention than was evinced by a stolid stare, a shake of the head, and a sort of prolonged sigh. A spectator of quicker mind—and he would need to have been quick, for the pace was already great—might have taken a fugitive interest in noting the facial expressions of the vehicle’s three occupants. Templeton looked earnest and responsible: Eves wore only the shadow of his usual smile, for he was oppressed by an anxious doubt whether his former experiences of yachting would serve him in handling the sail of this novel craft. The wind was not only strong but gusty, and at slight turns in the road the boom showed a tendency to swing out of his control and commit assault and battery on the person of his passenger. That gentleman, however, was evidently on the top of enjoyment. Whatever his errand was, it was driven from his mind by sheer exhilaration. He lived wholly in the present. Peering over Templeton’s shoulder at the speedometer, he reported with boyish excitement the movements of the indicator—twenty, twenty-five, thirty: "Believe you me, it’s thirty miles; the like of that, now!"