The man ran for his barn. The car was inside. It was an old Ford. Jimmy groaned when he saw it. The man started to crank it. To Jimmy it seemed as though the thing would never start. But finally it coughed, then began to explode regularly. The motor sounded good to Jimmy. The man drew on an old overcoat that was in the car. “Get in,” he said. Jimmy obeyed with alacrity. The man let in his clutch and the car rolled out into the road. “Drive as fast as you can make her go,” urged Jimmy. “I have very important despatches for an official of the government. I simply must catch him. He’s on his way west. If you hurry, there’s a chance.” The man threw caution to the winds. Twenty-five dollars was more money than he had seen at one time in years. He opened the throttle wide. The little Ford tore along the road. It roared and rattled. It bounced and swayed. When it struck a bump it leaped like a rabbit. But the man never slackened his speed and Jimmy clung to the seat desperately. “I want to go to the flying field,” said Jimmy. “There’s a car waiting for me there to take me to Tyrone.” “I’ll put you there in no time,” said the mountaineer. Jimmy looked at his watch. There was just a possibility that he could make it if everything went well. Jimmy sat in silence. But his heart was beating fast with anxiety and apprehension. On they raced through the night. The man seemed to know the road perfectly. He tore around sharp bends, dashed into dark hollows, went roaring along the straight stretches, almost without altering his pace. Suddenly he applied the brakes. Then he shot around a sharp corner. Ahead of them lights were gleaming. Jimmy recognized the flying field. He thrust his hand into his pocket, drew out his roll of bills, and counted out $30. As the Ford came to a stop before the hangar, Jimmy thrust the money into the driver’s hand, leaped from the car, and raced for a powerful, big motor that stood a few rods distant. He ran up to the driver, who was sitting on the front seat. “Is this the car engaged by the New York _Morning Press_ to take a man to Tyrone?” he asked. “Yes,” said the driver, in surprise. “He’s coming in by plane and ought to have been here some time ago. I’m beginning to be alarmed about him. Know anything about him?” “I’m the man,” said Jimmy, climbing into the car. “My plane iced up and fell near Mingoville, but I wasn’t hurt. Get started, please.” The driver was off like a shot. Jimmy looked at his watch. “You’ve got thirty-five minutes to make it,” he said. The driver’s only response was to put on more speed. Over rough roads he went spinning, as recklessly as the mountaineer had done in his Ford. But the great car he drove took up shocks and the speed did not seem so great. Jimmy wanted to protest, but when he glanced at the speedometer he thought better of it. He sat in silence, watching the road, as they went roaring along.