The Motor Boys Overland

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.

"I didn't have the full-speed lever on, either," remarked Bob, who was called "Chunky" by his companions, because of his fleshiness. He turned off the gasolene as the auto came under a large chestnut tree, and the four boys stretched out comfortably on the leather-upholstered seats.

There was Bob Baker, a lad of fifteen years, son of Andrew Baker, a rich banker; Ned Slade, sixteen years old, the only son of Aaron Slade, a department store proprietor, and Jerry Hopkins, the son of a widow, Mrs. Julia Hopkins.

These three were faithful chums, seldom apart. With them was a mutual friend, Andy Rush. All the boys lived in the village of Cresville, not far from Boston.

The three first named had, the week before the story opens, come into possession of a fine touring car, which they had won as the first prize of a motor-cycle meet, given by the Cresville Athletic Club, as related in the first volume of this series, entitled "The Motor Boys."

In that was told how they had incurred the enmity of Noddy Nixon, a town bully, who had robbed the mill of Amos Judson of one thousand dollars, which crime the Motor Boys were instrumental in fastening on Noddy.

In consequence of the pending disclosure of his guilt, Noddy had fled from town, a short time before the races, in his father's automobile. Bill Berry, a town ne'er-do-well, accompanied him. Not long after Noddy had fled in the terror of his guilt being found out, he sent back a letter threatening vengeance on the three boys, whom he accused as being responsible for the fact that he had to leave home.

But the Motor Boys, as they now called themselves, cared little for this in view of the pleasures they anticipated when they got the automobile. It had come in due time; a fine affair, with all the latest improvements and attachments, and was a car capable of making a trip almost anywhere.

The company from whom the auto was purchased sent an expert out to Cresville with it, to instruct the boys in the running of the machine. They learned readily, and were soon able to make short trips on the country roads surrounding the village. This was the first time they had made an extended trip, and the drawing of lots had given Bob the chance to drive the auto, with the result that he nearly came to grief when the dog unexpectedly ran across the road.

For about half an hour the three chums and Andy rested in the shade. It was a pleasant fall afternoon, and though the sun was warm there was a cool breeze.

"Whose turn to crank her up?" asked Bob, for, of course, it could not be expected of him, in charge of the steering wheel, to start the engine.

"I guess it's mine," came from Ned, with a sort of groan. His arm still ached from the previous turning of the flywheel.

"I'll do it-lots of fun-first time I ever had a chance-let me-good for my muscle-whoop!" exclaimed Andy, bustling from the car.

"Oh, it's good for your muscle, all right enough," observed Ned. "Go on, I'll not stop you."

It was harder work than Andy had anticipated, but he managed to give the crank a few turns and spin the heavy flywheel around. Bob switched on the spark, turned the gasolene into the cylinders, and soon there was a throbbing that told the engine had started. Andy jumped to one side and nearly toppled over.

"Did you think I'd run you down?" asked Bob.

"I don't know anything about autos," answered Andy.

"She can't go until I connect the speed-gears," explained Bob, with something of a superior air. "Hop in, Andy!"

Andy climbed back to his rear seat, Bob threw the lever forward to first speed, and the car, moving slowly at first, but with increasing swiftness, started down the road.

"Look out for dogs!" advised Ned.

"We don't want roast chicken for supper, so you needn't bother to kill any," came from Jerry.

"I can steer as good as either of you," exclaimed the stout lad. "You nearly hit a man the other day, Jerry, and I guess you've forgotten, Ned, how you broke down one of Mr. Smith's shade trees. I'm not as bad as that."

Honk! honk! sounded down the road in the rear of the boys.

"Here comes another auto," said Jerry. "Keep over to one side, Bob."

Honk! honk! This time it was Bob who blew his horn to let the oncomers know some one was ahead of them. The noise of the approaching car sounded nearer.

"Better keep well over, Chunky," advised Ned.

"I'm not going to give 'em more than half the road," answered Bob, firmly. "If they want a race they can have it, too."

He threw the third-speed clutch into place, and the boys' car shot ahead so suddenly that Andy was nearly toppled out of his seat. The red auto dashed down the road.

Behind it, at a swift pace, there came a big, green affair, almost twice the size of the Cresville machine. It was going at a great pace, a lone man occupying the steering seat, and no one being in back. As the green car shot past the red one, the solitary rider gave three toots to his horn. Bob answered, and then, before the other boys could stop him he advanced his spark, turned on more gasolene, and was away after the green dragon like a streak of red fire.

"What are you going to do?" yelled Ned.

"See if I can beat him!" exclaimed Bob.

"You're crazy! That's a ninety horse-power car and ours is only forty!"

"I'm going to try," repeated Bob, between his clenched teeth.

It looked like a hopeless undertaking. The green car was a quarter of a mile ahead before Bob could get his machine speeded up. When he did, however, the new auto ran along swiftly and easily.

Bob shut off his power temporarily and then, with a quick yank, pulled the lever to full speed ahead. Then he turned on the spark and gasolene. The red auto seemed to double its already swift motion.

The car swayed from side to side, and the boys, except Bob, who had a firm grip of the wheel, were bounced up into the air, again and again. Bob had on big goggles, and, with head bent low, was watching the road like a hawk ready to pounce on a chicken.

"We're gaining on him!" he muttered, and he tooted the horn. Back a faint, answering blast came.

Indeed, it was evident that the red auto, though a smaller and less powerful machine, was creeping up on its rival. The lone chauffeur glanced back, saw the pursuing car, and turned on full power.

For a few moments he increased his lead. But Bob advanced his spark further, and turned on a trifle more of gasolene. The red auto once more leaped forward.

"We've got him!" cried Bob. "He can't get another inch out of his, and I haven't used the accelerator pedal yet. We'll beat him!"

"If we don't all break our necks!" exclaimed Jerry, holding to his seat.

"Terrible fast-takes your breath-shakes the liver-pin out of you-loosens all your teeth-great sport-smash the machine-never say die-don't give up the ship-whoop!" yelled Andy, as he slid down to the bottom of the car, unable any longer to remain upright.

Slowly the red car crept up on the green one. The dust arose in clouds about both machines. The autos swayed from the terrific speed, but Bob held the wheel firm and was ready to shut off power and apply the emergency brake in a second. The man in front again glanced back, and did not seem to relish being passed by mere boys in a smaller car than his. He was making desperate efforts to draw away.

The distance between the machines lessened. Bob was watching his opportunity.

"Now we've got him!" he cried. "Here we go!"

He pushed down the accelerator pedal, used only to give a momentary burst of speed. The red car shot forward and the front wheels almost lapped the rear ones of the machine in the lead.

There was a slight turn to the road, just where Bob had decided to pass his rival. A clump of trees hid the view, excepting for a short distance ahead. Just as the boys' auto was on the point of making the turn and passing the green one, Ned glanced up and gave a shout of terror.

Right in front was a load of hay, overturned in the road, and both cars, at full speed, were dashing straight for it!

* * *