"A man on a bicycle followed by a big greyhound was just ahead. We screeched. The man went into the ditch and took a header. The greyhound didn't have time to turn out then. He bent to the oars until he had gained lead enough to save himself with a sidelong jump into the buttercups. "'Charge it!' "The needle on the speedometer wavered from fifty to fifty-five, then struck at sixty, held a second there, and passed it. Gnats and flies hit my face and stung like flying shot. The top of the road went up in a swirl of dust behind us. I hung on, with my life in my trembling hands. We zipped past teams and motor-cars. "We filled every eye with dust and every ear with screeches and every heart with a swift pang of terror. "'Charge it!' "A rider with a frightened horse raced on ahead of us to the next corner. We sped across the track into Chesterville and-- "'Hold up! There's the office ahead.' "The levers move, down goes the brake, and we're there. "'Eleven miles in fourteen minutes!' Harry exclaims, as I spring out and hurry to the door. It was really sixteen minutes, but I always allow Harry a slight discount. "'Not in!' I shout, in a second. "'Not in--heart of Allah!--where is he?' "'At the Wilton job on the point.' "'We'll go get him.' "'You go; I'll wait here.' "Away he rushes--I thank God for the brief respite. This high power encourages great familiarity with the higher powers. But the Creator's name is used here in no light or profane spirit, let me say. In each case it is only a brief prayer or, rather, the beginning of a prayer which one has not time to finish. It is cut short by a new adventure. "I say to myself that I shall not ride back with Harry. No, life is still dear to me. I will take the trolley. And yet--what thrilling, Jove-like, superhuman deviltry it was! I light a cigar and sit down. Harry and Wilton arrive. Fifteen minutes gone! "I get down to business. "Harry says: 'Please cut it short.' "I could have saved five hundred dollars if I had had time to present our side of the case with proper deliberation. But Harry keeps shouting: "'Do cut it short. I _must_ get there--don't you know?' "Wilton must have his pay, too--he needs every cent of it to-morrow. "'You go on. I'll stay here and settle this matter and go home by the trolley.' "'Let's stick together,' my young friend entreats. 'Please hurry it through and come on with me. I need you.' "Harry must have company. His time is wasted unless he has a spectator--an audience--a witness--a historian. Without that, all his hair-breadth escapes would be thrown away. His stories would hang by a thread. "'We've only twenty-one minutes,' he calls. "I say to myself: 'Damn the man whose money is like water and whose time is more precious than the last hour of Mahomet.' Well, of course, there was plenty of money, but the supply of time was limited. To waste a second was to lose an opportunity for self-indulgence.