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There was a whizz of rubber-tired wheels, a cloud of dust and the frightened yelping of a dog as a big, red touring automobile shot down the road. You nearly ran over him, Chunky! exclaimed Jerry Hopkins, to the stout youth at his side. That's what you did, Bob Baker! chimed in Ned Slade, leaning over from the rear seat of the auto. I thought you said you were an expert. I didn't come within five feet of the pup, answered Bob Baker, giving the steering wheel a twist to avoid a chicken that scooted across the country road. Never mind-miss as good as a mile-we certainly are skating along-never say die-hit a dog, biff! bang! up in the air-down again-bust a tire-break your leg-kill the animal-off again-whoop! Say, Andy Rush, if you're going to talk as fast as that the first time Chunky speeds the machine, I'm going to get out! cried Jerry, with a laugh. There's excitement enough without you making any more. All right, fellows, I'll keep quiet, agreed Andy, who was a small, nervous chap, never still for a moment, and so full of energy that he talked, as Jerry sometimes said, like a house afire. Bob leaned forward and pulled one of the levers. The auto slowed down, as the low-speed gear came into play, and bowled along under a stretch of shady trees. Fifteen miles in thirty minutes, remarked the stout lad, pulling out his watch. Not so bad for a starter, eh, Ned? The machine certainly can go! observed Jerry.
