Chapter XIV. A Great Run - Page 2

about fifteen miles from Shopton, when, as he flashed past the small railroad station, he saw a familiar figure standing on the platform.

"Why, Ned!" called Tom, "what are you doing over here?"

"I might ask the same thing of you. Is that your new car? It doesn't look very new."

"Yes, this is it. I haven't had a chance to paint and varnish it yet. But you ought to see it go. What are doing here, though?"

"I came over on some bank business. A customer here had some bonds he wanted to dispose of and I came for them. You see we're enlarging our business since the new bank started."

"Has it hurt your bank any?"

"Not yet, but Foger and his associates are trying hard to make us lose money. Say, did you ever see such a place as this? I've got to wait two hours for a train back to Shopton."

"No you haven't."

"Why not? Have they changed the timetable since I came over this morning?"

"No, but you can ride back with me. I'm going, and I'll show you what my new electric car can do."

"Good!" cried the young bank cashier. "You're just in time. I was wondering how I could kill two hours, but now I'll get in your new car and--"

"And maybe we'll kill a few chickens, or a dog or two when we get her speeded up," put in Tom, with a laugh in which Ned joined.

The two lads, seated in the front part of the auto, were soon moving down the hard highway. Suddenly Tom pulled a lever and the steel wind-shield came sliding down from the top case, meeting the forward battery compartment, and forming a sort of slanting roof over the heads of the two occupants.

"Here! What's this?" cried Ned.

"We're going to hit it up in a few minutes," replied the young inventor, "and I want to reduce the wind resistance."

"Oh, I thought maybe we were going through a bombardment. It's all right, go ahead, don't mind me. I'm game."

There was a celluloid window in the steel wind-shield, and through this the lads could observe the road ahead of them.

As they swung along it, the speed increasing, Ned saw an auto ahead of them.

"Whose car is that?" he asked.

"Don't know," replied Tom. "We'll be up to it in about half a minute, though."

As the electric runabout, more dilapidated looking than ever from the layer of dust that covered it, passed the other auto, which was a powerful car, the solitary occupant of it, a middle- aged man, looked to one side, and, seeing the queer machine, remarked:

"You fellows are going the wrong way to the junk heap. Turn around."

"Is that so?" asked Tom, his eyes flashing at the cheap wit of the man. "Why we came