"My hands and wrists are cramped and numb," she remarked, turning to McCarthy. "Let the man drive the rest of the way. He knows the road," he urged. "And leave me--to miss the game?" she asked. "Not much. Rub my hands, please." She extended her strong, firm hand and McCarthy, bending over it, massaged and slapped it vigorously. "Don't break it, please," she said, laughing. "Take the other one." "Both," he whispered, his voice full of meaning. "All ready," announced the garage keeper. "I think she'll stand it now." "It's 11.10," said McCarthy. "If we get there by three." "If we get there at all," she said, "even if you are late, you can get into the game." For five miles they sped along over perfect roads, then suddenly a long stretch of new macadam loomed ahead. For three miles they lurched and struggled, and were free again, but the road was heavy and slow. Up hill and down they fought the road, at times slipping, lurching and skidding while the girl coaxed the car onward. The road grew worse and worse. The hills were steeper. The rain-guttered mud at times almost stalled the car. "Twenty miles in an hour and ten minutes," groaned McCarthy. "This won't do." The next hour was even worse. The girl was showing signs of weariness and the strain of holding the machine in the rough going. Three miles of good road across a hill-top plateau raised their courage, then they encountered sand. It was twenty minutes to two o'clock, when, mud splattered, they raced into Hilton, with the car missing fire in one cylinder, the engine smoking and gasoline almost exhausted. McCarthy almost lifted Betty Tabor from the car as they stopped at the garage and she gave rapid directions to the manager, explaining the need of haste. "I'm afraid the car won't get you through," he said, "but we'll try." "Have it ready at two o'clock," she ordered quickly. "We must get through somehow." "It's thirty-four miles," he said. "But the roads are fair. If the car was in shape it would be easy." "We'll eat lunch while you overhaul it," she replied. McCarthy secured the lunch from the car and they spread it upon the grass in the yard and ate. The girl was too weary for conversation, but as she ate she seemed to gain strength and courage. "We'll get there before the game is over, anyhow," she said quietly. "I want to see Williams's face when you come onto the field." "I thought you and he"---- "I never have liked him," she interrupted quickly. Three minutes before the town clock chimed the hour of two in Hilton, the machine, again running smoothly, shot out from the garage. Its occupants, refreshed and more cheerful, faced the final stretch of the long race. "Fourteen miles in twenty-one minutes," cried McCarthy, as the mile posts flashed by. "We'll be there." [Illustration: "FOURTEEN MILES IN TWENTY-ONE MINUTES"]