"Can I drive? Can a duck float? I've driven a six-sixty Pierce Arrow through the White Mountains, but you wouldn't know what that means. Let's see," said the irrepressible Codfish, as he slipped into the driver's seat just vacated by the chauffeur and worked the shift lever as he spoke: "First speed inside ahead, second speed outside ahead, high, outside back. Reverse, inside back. I've got you, Steve. We'll be back here in fifteen minutes. Please be waiting at the church for we haven't too many spare minutes this morning." "Be careful, sir," called the chauffeur, "it's a heavy penalty driving without a license." "Same thing in our country, but we're hard to catch," the Codfish shouted back over his shoulder as, with motor speeding up, he dropped into high gear and fled up the road like a red shadow. "This is what we should have done long before this," quoth Gleason, "a chauffeur is a clog on conversation." "Yes, but he's handy to have along under certain conditions." The boys drove along in silence for five minutes, when Frank, with his mind on train time, said: "Better turn now, old man. We've been out nearly thirty minutes, and thirty more makes an hour, my time limit." "You're great on mathematics. Let's go up this road through the village there to our right and out back on the main road, pick up the gent who went to visit the old folks, and then I'll drop you in dear old Brighton in some few minutes. But first let us explore a little." "I'd rather we explored some other time," Frank remonstrated. But the Codfish was willful. He found a road leading to the left, circled the village and came back again to a highway. "Now, let's see, where did we leave that chap?" he mused. "Right along here some place by the willows, wasn't it?" Driving slowly, the boys scanned the roadside for their chauffeur, but no sight of him could they discover. "Well, it certainly was here somewhere, and if he hasn't the gumption to come back as per agreement, he can stay behind, eh, what?" "Gleason, this doesn't look like the road we came on," said Frank, in alarm. "Well, it's a good road, isn't it?" "But no road is good unless it leads to Brighton. Remember your promise. That train leaves at ten-thirty and it is five minutes of ten now. And, moreover, we're lost." "Lost, your eye! How can we be lost when I'm at the helm?" But, nevertheless, the puzzled look on the Codfish's face continued to grow deeper as the minutes passed away and nothing was seen of the chauffeur. "I say," he called to a passing farmer, "can you tell me if this is the road to Brighton?" "Naw. Second turn to the right and then keep straight ahead." "How far from here?" "'Bout five mile." "The country is saved. Now see the dust fly. Twenty minutes to do five miles. Oh, it's a cinch. That chauffeur can walk home. I'll settle." Fifteen minutes later the Codfish drew up at the outskirts of a small village. "Is this the way to Brighton?" he inquired of a passer-by.