"Aren't we going a bit too fast down hill?" inquired Mr. Martin. The driver shut his lips with a grim tightening. He yanked back on the brake handle with all his force. Then a startled look came over his face. "The brake rod is broken!" he cried. Gathering speed the ponderous truck, with its load of humanity--the cadet football team shot down hill, bumping over stones and hollows, swerving from side to side, the steering wheel making the firm hands of the driver tremble. "Haven't you got two brakes?" gasped Dick. "Yes--got the foot on one--she won't hold her with this load," was the panting answer. "Can't we jump out before it goes any faster?" asked Hal Foster. "Stay where you are!" fairly shouted the man. "Maybe I can guide her down." He was tooting the horn frantically to warn possible approaching vehicles that his was out of control. Fortunately the hill was straight, and a level stretch at the bottom gave promise of a long coast that might check the awful speed the car would have when it reached the foot of the declivity. Faster and faster went the runaway truck, and now from behind came the frantic calls of the other cadets who realized the danger to their football team. And there was grave danger--danger that could not be avoided, for Simpson, yanking again and again on the brake lever, only made more certain that it would not work, and the foot brake was pitifully inadequate to check the now rushing vehicle. CHAPTER XXVI ANOTHER GAME There was silence for a time among the cadets of the football team--silence broken only by the whirr and hum of the machinery as it ran free, for the gasolene had been shut off. Under the big tires crunched the small stones and gravel of the road. "Can't you start the motor and hold her back on the reverse?" shouted Dick above the noise. Simpson shook his head. "I'd rip her all to pieces if I did," he answered. "Queer about that brake rod snapping. That's not in my department, but I'd like to get hold of the man that inspected and tested it," he added grimly. "I'd break him!" Dick looked into the faces of his chums. There was a quiet, strained look in all of them, but none of them showed craven fear. He glanced at his father, and Mr. Hamilton smiled at his son. "I guess we won't be behind hand now," he said. "No," and Dick shook his head. Then he glanced over the side of the truck and noted how the trees were slipping by. They were going at ever-increasing speed. Luckily they met no other vehicles on the hill, or there might have been trouble. The auto drivers in the rear, finding they could do nothing were keeping up as close as they could, to render any assistance if possible. It was well that the speeding truck was strongly and ponderously made, and that it was hung low, otherwise it would have toppled over. As it was they all swayed from side to side dangerously, tossing the occupants against one another. "Good practice for the coming game," remarked Dutton.