“Yes,” replied Gordon dryly, “Dick saw you, I guess. He said you were racing with the trolley.” “Oh, shucks, not that time! I was only doing about thirty then. I had to slow down for a team. You ought to have seen me the other morning on the Springdale road. That was going some, I tell you!” “Well, if you try any thirty mile stunt to-day I’ll fall out the back of it,” warned Gordon. “I won’t. Wait till I start it. All right. In you get. Pretty comfortable seats, aren’t they?” “Yes,” agreed Gordon as the runabout swung around in the dusty road and headed toward Clearfield at a moderate speed. “Does—does your father know about it?” Morris chuckled. “No, not yet. I don’t want him to, but I suppose some busybody will tell him.” “Bound to,” said Gordon. “Especially if you do such spectacular stunts as you did the other day. Folks on the trolley, Dick said, expected to see you go off the road any minute.” “Pooh! Folks who don’t drive autos always think that. Why, you’re just as safe in this thing as you are in the trolley. Safer, I guess. Remember when the car jumped the track year before last and killed six or seven people?” “Yes, but I’ll take my chances with the trolley,” replied Gordon. “There it goes now. I wonder if the fellows caught it.” “Sure. Anyway, we’ll soon see. I can catch that trolley as though it was standing still!” Morris pulled down his throttle and the little car bounded forward with a deeper hum of its engine. Gordon grasped the arm of the seat beside him. “Never mind!” he exclaimed. “I don’t care whether they did or not, Morris! Pull her down!” Morris obeyed, laughing. “Shucks,” he said, “that wasn’t fast. We were only going twenty-five or six miles an hour.” “How do you know?” grumbled Gordon, relaxing his grip. Morris indicated the speedometer with his foot. “That thing tells you,” he explained. “Watch the long hand. We’re doing sixteen now. I’ll hit her up a bit. There, see the hand move around? Twenty—twenty-two—twenty-four——” “That’ll do, thanks! And for the love of mud, Morris, keep her away from this fence!” “Why, there’s five feet there,” protested the driver. “Y-yes, but the old thing wabbles so it gives me heart failure!” “You just think it does,” returned Morris. “I can keep her as straight as an arrow if I want to.” “Want to, then, will you?” laughed Gordon uneasily. “And—and here’s another car coming, Morris. Hadn’t you better slow down a little?” “Say, you’re an awful baby,” commented the other. But he lowered the speed of the car still further and, to Gordon’s relief, hugged the fence pretty closely while a big gray touring car shot by them in a cloud of dust. Morris turned a speculative, admiring gaze on it as it passed. “Thirty-five easily, she’s making,” he said. “Some day I’m going to have one like that. These little cars are all right to knock about in, but they’re too light to get much speed out of.”