Now that he was headed for London, even Frank's spirits rose. What seemed no chance half an hour ago had been transformed into a possibility. Well he knew that Gleason was exceeding the speed limit, but the time was so short a chance had to be taken with tires, road, police and everything else. The stake was worth it. One cannot race along the roads of south-east England and race very far. So the inevitable happened. Ten miles outside of Brighton, when Gleason was doing something better than forty miles an hour, he pretended not to hear a hail from the side of the road, and kept straight on, but he could not help hearing the sharp spatter of a motorcycle behind him a minute later, and instinctively knew it was the police. He slowed down till he was running at about fifteen miles an hour. The officer came alongside. He was plainly angry. "Why didn't you stop when I called to you?" demanded the officer. "Oh, did you call?" asked the Codfish innocently. "We are in a great hurry," explained Frank. "We have to be there by one o'clock or one-thirty at the latest." "Now maybe you will and maybe you won't. Turn that car around and come along with me." "Look here, this chap here," indicating Frank, "is in that track meet up at Queen's Club at two o'clock this afternoon. He lost his train by accident and I promised to get him there. Now, let us go through." "Can't be done. You Americans all try to tear through the country at break-neck speed. You can't do it here, I tell you. Let's see your license." The Codfish began fumbling in his pockets. "Great Scott! I haven't got the thing anywhere about my jeans, the chauffeur must have it, bad luck to him." "Another thing to explain to the magistrate. Come along now." The Codfish reluctantly tacked the car around and followed his guide to the little hamlet where the officer first hailed him from the roadside. To the disgust of the two American youths the magistrate could not be found, a piece of news imparted to them by the officer after a ten minutes' search around the little court building off the main street. "Well, now, let us go along," insisted the Codfish. "We've made our call, the magistrate isn't in. We've done our duty, now let's call it off. When you come to America I'll get you a job on the police force of Syracuse. Come on, be a good scout and let's be hitting the gravel. This fellow here with me has to jump in the track games at Queen's Club grounds, and it will be a great disappointment to his friends if he can't be there, to say nothing about his own feelings. Think how it would be if he were your own offspring and was jumping for the English to help lick the Yankees." His cross-fire on the officer might possibly have had some effect if affairs had not taken a new and sudden turn for the worse. As the Codfish was making his arguments, a messenger came up and handed the officer a note. He read it, looked over our friends who were still seated in the car and ran his eye over the car.