The Stolen Roadster
The auto brakes squealed.
The driver of the oncoming car swung the wheel viciously about. For a moment it appeared that the wheels would not respond. Then they gripped the gravel and the automobile swerved, then shot past.
Bits of sand and gravel were flung about the two boys as they crouched by their motorcycles at the edge of the embankment. The car had missed them only by inches!
Frank caught a glimpse of the driver, who turned about at that moment and, in spite of the speed at which the automobile was traveling and in spite of the perils of the road, shouted something they could not catch at them and shook his fist.
The car was traveling at too great a speed to enable the lad to distinguish the driver’s features, but he saw that the man was hatless and that he had a shock of red hair blowing in the wind.
Then the automobile disappeared from sight around the curve ahead, roaring away in a cloud of dust.
“The road hog!” gasped Joe, as soon as he had recovered from his surprise.
“He must be crazy!” Frank exclaimed angrily. “Why, he might have pushed us both right over the embankment!”
“At the rate he was going I don’t think he cared whether he ran anyone down or not.”
Both boys were justifiably angry. On such a narrow, treacherous road there was danger enough when an automobile passed them traveling at even a reasonable speed, but the reckless and insane driving of the redheaded motorist was nothing short of criminal.
“If we ever catch up to him I’m going to give him a piece of my mind!” declared Frank. “Not content with almost running us down he had to shake his fist at us.”
“Road hog!” muttered Joe again. “Jail is too good for the likes of him. If it was only his own life he endangered it wouldn’t be so bad. Good thing we only had motorcycles. If we had been in another car there would have been a smashup, sure.”
The boys resumed their journey and by the time they had reached the curve ahead that enabled them to see the village of Willowville lying in a little valley along the bay beneath them, there was no trace of the reckless motorist.
Frank delivered the legal papers his father had given to him, and then the boys had the rest of the day to themselves.
“It’s too early to go back to Bayport just now,” he said to Joe. “What say we go out and visit Chet Morton?”
“Good idea,” agreed Joe. “He has often asked us to come out and see him.”
“Somebody’s had a spill,” he remarked.