# Two and a Motor

   This is the amazing story of a frivolous young man who became suddenly and intensely interested in a certain branch of scientific Investigation. It may be stated that the particular line of research with which we have to deal was at the same time being followed by a notably beautiful girl; but that is neither here nor there. …
TWO and a MOTOR
By ROBERT BARR
THIS is the amazing story of a frivolous young man who became suddenly and intensely interested in a certain branch of scientific Investigation. Research becomes the most absorbing of purists, and takes hold of a man—especially a young man—like drink, or cholera, or gambling. It may be stated that the particular line of research with which we have to deal was at the same time being followed by a notably beautiful girl; but that is neither here nor there. I insist that it is science which holds us in thrall, so we may treat the girl as incidental.
First let us understand our young man. His name was J. L. Spofford, his age was twenty-six; yet he had already achieved a reputation of sorts in the newspaper and magazine world. Jack Spofford, as his associates called him, was a very modern product, keen in his profession, and up to stuff generally.
Time was when an editor sat in his chair and waited for good things to fall into his lap. He chose the best, or the worst, or the intermediate, and his periodical was good, bad, or indifferent accordingly. His position was a comfortable one, and so was bis chair; but one eager day there arose another kind of editor, and from that moment our slow-going friend was out of date, although he did not recognise this at the time. The new editor was like a commander-in-chief of a hotly contested campaign. He did not wait for things, but went more than three-quarters of the way to meet them; and when an Astonishing Event, emerging from obscurity, met the new editor, the event was forthwith grasped, shaken into shape, dressed in such flowing robes of language that it sometimes was unable to recognise itself, then flung forward and presented to the world as the greatest thing that ever was. Did a doctor in Scandinavia invent a new cure for toothache, the modern editor's man with fountain pen and camera was at his door almost before the first patient's jaw had stopped throbbing. Did an intrepid traveller penetrate to the Forbidden City, he was met by the new reporter on the slope of the pass five hundred miles from the nearest telegraph-office. Was there a rumour that a scientist in France had discovered a ray that would probe to the centre of the earth, the new editor's man had it all in type before members of the Royal Society received their invitations to attend the first demonstration.
Now, Jack Spofford was not a new editor; he was merely one of the numerous talented young men whom the needs of the new editor had called forth. Already an interesting writer, he came, by a sort of instinct, at the popular points of any new discovery—able to write understandingly about it, even though he had never heard about it the day before. It was a modern case of ignorance being bliss, for ignorance was one of the necessary equipments of his profession. A learned scientific man will write accurately enough, but his product will be incomprehensible to the layman, and deadly dull to anyone but his peers.
Ignorance, then, is a necessary part of a young writer's stock-in-trade, because he thus appreciates the difficulties of the unlearned reader; and when he has overcome his own lack of knowledge, he is in a position to present the case lucidly on his pages. It must not be supposed that on account of this first unacquaintance with his subjects his work is therefore full of error. Just the reverse is the case. It must be as accurate as a scientific treatise and as interesting as a detective story. The young man who is able to unite these two requirements may travel all over the world free of expense to himself, receiving the remuneration of a great financier. This is the kind of young man Jack Spofford was, holding a position so important on the Daily Argus that there was bestowed upon him a room entirely to himself in the Argus building, where none of the young cubs of journalism were allowed to intrude without invitation.
Spofford sat in this room one day, leaning back luxuriously with his feet on the desk, thinking he was thinking, but certain he was smoking, when there came a timid knock at his door.
"Come in!" he roared, as a lion is entitled to do, whereupon the door opened gently, as if it had some hesitation about bringing interruption upon an inmate so important. A young woman, veiled, stood on the threshold, and Jack's feet came down with a thump to the floor, while, with equal celerity, he removed his pipe from between his teeth.
"Are you the proprietor?" she asked.
"No such luck," he replied with emphasis.
"The editor, then?"
"No; the editor won't be here till five o'clock."
His sentences were curt, and his tone proclaimed the annoyance he felt, not at the young lady, as she probably supposed, but at the Irish porter downstairs who had permitted her to come up. This useful person was adamant so far as the generality of man was concerned, but a pretty woman always had him at her mercy, and a visible proof of that fact now stood in the doorway, evidently hesitating between a desire to retire and a determination to advance.
"The one I wished to see," she continued, after an embarrassing pause, "was Mr. Spofford; but I thought perhaps I should have to obtain permission from the editor or the proprietor before calling upon him."
"No such permission is necessary, madam," replied Jack, now upon his feet; "my name is Spofford. Won't you come in and sit down and tell me what I can do for you?"
The young woman entered and took the chair he had drawn forward for her, he seating himself at his desk again, regretting his former abruptness, and wishing she would raise her veil, for her face seemed tantalisingly pretty, partially obscured though it was. She took from the bag at her side several thin, crinkly papers, on whose semi-transparent surface some plans seemed to be drawn. These she smoothed out a little nervously on the desk, noticeably at a loss how to begin. Then she plunged suddenly into her subject.
"I have read many of your articles, Mr. Spofford, and I thought perhaps you might write one on a new motor-car which my father has invented, and which he thinks will revolutionise the traction problem of to-day."
She spoke rapidly, as if reciting something she had learned by heart.
A cynical smile smile to Jack's lips: he had met this sort of thing so often before, but it was trebly disappointing to find an engaging young woman acting as solicitor in a case which he looked upon as the endeavour to obtain a free advertisement—the one unforgivable crime in a newspaper office.
"Madam," he said, with some return of his former manner, "have you any idea why a great daily is published?"
"I suppose it is to give to the world the news of the day; and, besides, a great newspaper should defend the right and expose wrongdoers."
There was a certain air of finality in the laying down of these principles which rather amused Mr. Jack Spofford.
"M—m, yes," he replied, "quite so, quite so. Nevertheless, a journal like ours incurs a large expenditure of money day by day in salaries, telegraphing, and special information. This necessitates a keen eye being kept on our advertising pages, from which comes most of our revenue. I believe there are many hundreds of motor-cars on the market, each destined to revolutionise traffic, and the proper method of proclaiming their virtues to the world is through the assistance of our advertising manager."
"But you wrote an article on the Edison battery a week or two since," she protested.
"Ah, yes, Edison is always interesting: he and I are the two great masters of fiction now before the world. The public cries for Edison, whereas it would not read the exploits of the estimable Mr. Jones, for instance."
"There was your account of the possibilities of radium," went on the girl, as if she had not heard his demurrer. "You made that subject so beautifully clear that for the first time I understood it; and I am sure if you investigated this new cell which my father has invented, you would find it equally interesting, and perhaps of much more practical use to the world."
"Your praise of my work is very gratifying," said Jack, actually blushing, although he was well aware of his own value as a writer; "but, you see, I am restricted in a measure from choosing any theme that pleases me. To tell the truth, most of my subjects are chosen for me by the editor. I am really rather helpless in the matter. If I took in to him such an article as you propose, no matter how well written it might be, he would at once ask why this did not appear in our advertising columns. If I instanced radium, he would at once reply that the moment radium became a commercial product its value from the special writer's point of view had ceased."
"Does Mr. Edison advertise, then?"
"Off-hand, I should say he's one of the greatest advertisers in the world; but, above all things, he is interesting. Then, of course, we have advertisements of Edison phonographs, Edison arc-lights, Edison incandescent lamps, and what not. Oh, yes, Edison is a valuable man from both the advertising and the literary standpoint of a newspaper."
"If I paid for a small advertisement, would you write an article on this battery?" she asked earnestly.
Spofford leaned back in his chair and laughed, then was immediately sorry he had done so, for the girl rose to her feet quite obviously offended.
"Pray sit down again," he said hurriedly; "you see now how undeserved was your compliment to my work. I have entirely failed to make the position clear to you. No, an advertisement, even if you took a page, would not have the slightest effect. An editor is the most suspicious of men, and seems to be chosen largely for that quality. He would scent a concealed advertisement in an article on the building of the Pyramids."
The girl in her excitement had pushed up her veil and taken the papers from the desk, and Jack Spofford saw that she was infinitely more beautiful than even he had imagined.
"Pray sit down and tell me about this battery. I assure you I will do everything I can towards getting such an article as you wish printed, but I want you to comprehend the difficulties that are in the way, and perhaps I have somewhat magnified them. Now, to begin with, in what respect does this differ from existing batteries?"
She sank down into the chair once more and eagerly unfolded the sheets of oiled paper.
"It is not an acid, but an alkaline battery," she said. "The positive and negative plates are exceedingly thin and light, and are placed very close together, separated by a substance which my father has invented, which gives the fluid access to the plates, but at the same time keeps them apart and prevents short-circuiting. You will understand the construction by glancing at these drawings."
He had a writing-pad before him, and his stylographic pen in his hand. He took the sheet of paper she offered to him and examined it with apparent care, looking oftener, however, at her own animated countenance than upon the mechanical drawing. However, he knew enough about electricity to comprehend the trend of her remarks, and she seemed only too willing to furnish whatever explanation was desired, although some of his questions were so elementary that the girl rather underestimated his knowledge.
"The Kemlin cell," he read from the sheet. "Is Mr. Kemlin your father?"
"Yes. I am Irene Kemlin."
"Has he made any practical application of this battery?"
"Yes, we have two motor-cars, and they work perfectly. Of course you know the great advantage of electricity over petrol. One lever practically controls the action. There is no change-speed gear necessary. Electricity is the simplest and most silent of all motive powers, and you increase or decrease the speed simply by shoving a lever backwards or forwards."
"I understand that. Now, how far will this motor-car run on one charge?"
"A little over fifty miles."
"Ah!" ejaculated Spofford, leaning back in his chair, "that is not enough. I am sorry to say anything discouraging. Miss Kemlin, hut unless an electric car will do two or three hundred miles on one charge, it will not revolutionise the traction problem."
"Oh, yes, it will," she cried enthusiastically. "You see, the great advantage of this battery is that it can be recharged within ten minutes. That has never been accomplished before."
The young man knit his brows and gazed thoughtfully across at her,
"I see you are not convinced," she said, smiling at him for the first time.
He was certainly convinced of one thing—which was that this was the most bewitching smile he had ever beheld; but as electricity was the subject under discussion, he pulled himself together and endeavoured to concentrate his mind upon it.
"No, I am not convinced," he replied; "that is, I am not convinced of the practicability of the scheme, because charging-stations are too few and far between. If there were a charging-station every forty miles on even our main roads, then, as one might say, you would have something to come and go on; but anything more useless than an electric motor whose batteries are exhausted in the midst of a farming community, I cannot imagine."
"Oh, but supply always endeavours to meet demand," she argued. "Charging-stations will spring up along our roads as soon as they are called for. Remember that a few years ago petrol could not be had in a farming community, either, but now it may be obtained almost anywhere."
"That is true; still," he objected, "it is easier to store a can of petrol than to spend a thousand or two erecting a generating-station. However, there is no use in anticipating the future. I have got what I want, and that's enough for the present. The difficulty I foresee with my suspicious editor is to prove to him that there are points about this frog different from any other frog, as Mark Twain says. Well, I've got the difference, which is that you can charge this battery in ten minutes, while others take hours. If the editor proves stubborn, I swear I'll resign and transfer my valuable services to one of the opposition papers."
He was joking, of course, but she appeared to take everything he said in earnest and became instantly alarmed.
"Oh, you mustn't do that!" she cried. "I could not bear to think you had injured yourself while you were obliging me."
Then she blushed like the inside of a pink shell at the interest she had thus unconsciously displayed in him.
He came nonchalantly to the rescue.
"Injure myself? Not likely. I was talking of injuring the Argus if the editor proved difficult to manage. I want you to understand, Miss Kemlin, that I am a valuable man, with no delusions regarding my own worth. It does the editor good to have this impressed upon him now and again, so, you see, I am glad of the opportunity. In what part of the town is your father's laboratory?"
He hesitated as he pronounced this word, thinking perhaps it sounded better than "workshop."
"We do not live in town at all, but at Woodruffe, a small place seventy-five miles to the north."
Spofford wrote down the name.
"And have you come all that distance to see me?" he asked.
"I am by way of being my father's assistant," she said, speaking quickly and blushing again. "I come to town now and then to buy materials—chemicals, metals, and all that. For some weeks I have resolved to meet you if it were possible. To tell you the truth, Mr. Spofford, I have lately been very, very anxious over the situation. My father employs ten or a dozen men, and did a very good business in electrical apparatus, the installing of electric light, and the practice of general electrical engineering. Since taking up the construction of this battery, however, he has neglected everything else, and I am more than alarmed at the outlook. I thought that if an article appeared in the Argus, he might perhaps get a capitalist to finance him, or he might be able to form a small company which would take the risk of future experiments, a risk which he cannot in justice to himself endure much longer."
"I see," replied Spofford solemnly. "And does your father know you came up to the office or intended to do so?"
The girl bent her gaze on the carpet at her feet, the rich colour again flushing her fair face. She replied in a low voice—
"I fear you will think me very bold in acting thus entirely on my own initiative; but my father is a dreamy, unpractical man who should have been a poet rather than an electrical engineer. He knows nothing of what I have done."
"Ah, well," Spofford hastened to say consolingly, "there is a great future in store for electricity, and I doubt if the same can be said about poetry in this country."
The girl now rose to her feet.
"I am so much obliged to you," she said, "for your courtesy in receiving me, and your patience in listening."
"The pleasure has been mine," replied Spofford, also rising. "I am very much interested in electricity—in science of any kind—and am constantly on the look-out for whatever is new. I might never have heard of this invention were it not for you, and the knowledge will strengthen my position here immensely."
"I am so glad of that," she said simply—"if you really mean it."
"Oh, I mean it most sincerely. It is the very life of the paper to be up-to-date, so I beg of you to say nothing of this invention until I learn what I can do with it. I may almost assure you the article will appear, but the lion in our path is the editor, as I have indicated. Now, I think the best plan would he for me to take a run out to Woodruffe as soon as I can, then I shall be able to investigate the battery on the spot."
"I should be very glad indeed if you would do so," she said, turning upon him those bewildering eyes of hers brimming with gratitude. "Trains are slow to Woodruffe, and I am sure your time is most valuable. I feel guilty at having taken up so much of it to-day."
"The obligation is all on my side, Miss Kemlin. I am busy, of course; but the information you have so kindly given me is right along the line of my activities, such as they are. It's all in the day's work, in fact; and, on behalf of the newspaper and myself, I must thank you for the trouble you have taken."
This enthusiastic farewell was so different from the somewhat freezing reception, that even so inexperienced a girl as Irene Kemlin could not but see that one touch of science makes the whole world kin. She thought it a fine thing that a young man like Jack Spofford should be so thoroughly wrapped up in his profession. From being afraid of him at first she had grown to like both him and his enthusiasm during their long interview. Now he accompanied her through the hall and down the stair, bidding her a most cordial farewell at the door, while the eyes of Michael, the Irish porter, twinkled as he watched the two. The worthy Irishman saw that there was no censure coming to him from young Mr. Spofford. The porter put his head out of the box and said ingratiatingly to the special writer—
"The lady asked to see the proprietor or the editor or Mr. Spofford; and thinking she might be a friend of yours, I just allowed her to go upstairs."
"You were quite right, Michael," he replied, turning round from gazing after her. "She is a friend of mine, and any time she comes, I want to see her."
"Troth, I don't blame you," murmured the porter, as he withdrew into the box again.
Truth is mighty and will prevail, but nevertheless a great deal depends on the way it is presented. When the editor arrived, at five o'clock, Jack Spofford went in to see him. He opened the conversation with a fine air of indifference.
"That article on the Edison battery seems to have awakened more general interest than anything I have written this long time past."
"Has it?" asked the editor in his most noncommittal manner, for there flashed through his mind the thought that if this young fellow were seeking praise or a rise of salary, he was already extremely well paid, and was quite as conceited as was good for him. So the editor braced himself up to repel an attack from a quarter whence it was not to be delivered. This, of course, told in Spofford's favour, for it left unguarded the point at which the real assault was to be aimed.
"Yes, it has caused a good deal of comment, and it has had another effect, I am glad to say, which is to bring me into touch with all that is being done in that line, and I foresee some interesting developmente."
"As, for instance——?" commented the editor.
"Well, this very day I learned that there is being constructed in a quiet country place within a hundred miles of this town a battery that will make the scientific world sit up when it is announced."
"Have you seen it?"
"No, and there may be some difficulty in getting to see it. I have not even seen the inventor of it, nor have I ever been into the village where he is working at it. The information came to me in a curious way, and I bound my informant to secrecy, so that I think we will have this exclusive if I can get full particulars."
"Well, Spofford, you're supposed to keep your eyes open. Are you certain that this man isn't a disguised company promoter or someone interested financially in the battery?"
Spofford looked down at the toes of his boots for a moment, as if hesitating to reply. Then he glanced up at his chief with a smile and said—
"I wouldn't confess it to everyone, but my informant was a lady, who knows as little about company promoting as she does of the mystery of radium, about which our conversation began."
"Oh, really," replied the editor, "this is most interesting. Well, how are you going to get at your particulars? Bribe the employés?"
"There are no employés: that is, there are none who are allowed to touch the cells. The inventor, I understand, is a somewhat unpractical man absorbed in science. I don't know whether he's a suspicious individual or not, because, as I say, I've never met him; but unless you have something better to suggest, I think of going to see him, and I don't intend to talk money at all. I shall pose as a devotee of science."
"Did you learn in what respect this battery differs from others?"
"Yes. It sounds incredible, but the lady said it could be charged in something like ten minutes. My first business would be to learn if this statement is true; personally I can't believe it."
"Very well," said the editor decisively; "investigate, and give it a column or a paragraph, according to its news value."
The young man concealed whatever joy he felt at being thus given a free hand, for, as he had remarked, editors are a suspicious class, and must be treated with the wisdom of the serpent as well as with the harmlessness of the dove.
Next morning found him on his way to the village of Woodruffe. He had taken the precaution to telegraph the hour of his arrival to Miss Kemlin, fearing that otherwise she might be absent from the village, and of course it would never do for an enthusiastic pupil to find his teacher away from home. One who essays the study of a serious subject must see to it that he has adequate instruction.
His forethought reaped its reward. Irene Kemlin herself met him at the station, which proved to be two miles distant from the village in which she lived.
"It is so good of you to take this long journey," said the girl, as she shook hands with him. "I had no idea I should see you here so soon."
"Promptness is a necessity in the newspaper business, Miss Kemlin," he replied. "The news from the Far East is very serious this morning; and if war breaks out, people will want to read of that, and so my scientific articles run a chance of being shelved."
"I have brought our best electric car with me," said she enthusiastically. "I thought perhaps you might be interested in a practical demonstration of the battery at work before you examined it in detail."
"Nothing could be better," he replied, as he took his seat beside her.
It was a very light car, built for two, like the bicycle in the song, and she handled it to perfection.
"And then, you see, I had a double purpose in view," she continued; "for it is all of two miles to our village, and I could not have you walk when you were so good as to take that long railway journey."
"Only two miles?" he echoed. "I wish it were twenty"; then, noticing the glance of surprise, perhaps at the warmth of his tone, be added hastily: "two miles, you know, are no test of the car's capacity. I should like to be able to say I took a much longer run in the vehicle."
"That is easily managed. Do you know this part of the country at all?"
"I never was here in my life before; but it seems a most charming locality, and I hope to become better acquainted with it."
"It is a beautiful district, and the roads are excellent. If you have the time, we will run to Longford and back, which is more than your twenty miles."
"Time?" he said recklessly. "I have all the time there is. I am still quite a young man, with an equal love for scenery and science."
She laughed lightly at this, pulled the lever a notch or two, and flew along with the speed and murmur of a humming-bird.
"Isn't this delightful?" she asked, turning her fascinating eyes upon him, while the curly tendrils of her fair hair fluttered about her rosy cheeks.
"I never had a more enjoyable experience in my life," he affirmed.
"Then you are fond of motoring?"
"Oh, as to that, I have often been in motor-cars, but I realise now that I have never motored before."
They went up the slight hills like a gull on the wing, and came down with the swoop of a hawk, slowing down only as they reached the villages.
"I am devoted to motoring," she said, as they faced a long strip of road which required less attention and rendered conversation possible. "I think there is no pleasure in the world to equal it."
The young man was watching her from the corners of his eyes, a slight smile on his lips which seemed to hint that there were other joys; but his lips forbore to give further expression to the thought of the moment, and the girl, who saw nothing but the road ahead, went on innocently with her talk.
"On a road like this I always think of Dickens's entrancing description of a coach ride. Do you remember it?"
"I'm afraid I don't," remarked Spofford; "my education has been neglected so far as Dickens is concerned."
"It is where he describes the grandeur of the coach, the splendour of the horses, the jingling of the harness, the mystery of the night, and then 'Yo-ho! Yo-ho!' the race with the moon. It is a very poem of rapid motion, and I often wonder what Dickens would have thought of a motor-car. I wish he were here now, to give us an adequate account of it."
"It's a blessing he's not," remarked Spofford glibly, "for then none of us younger writers would get a chance. Oh, I say!" he protested, as she slowed down and began turning the automobile round, "you are surely never going back already? I thought you were to take me to what's-its-name."
"Longford? We passed that five or six miles back."
"I never noticed it."
"I fear you have not been paying the strictest attention to the scenery that I expected."
"Indeed, Miss Kemlin, you wrong me!" cried the young man with unnecessary fervency. "My eyes have been filled with beauty ever since we left the station."
"Have they?" she commented shortly, then gave her whole attention to the backing and turning of the car.
"The ride does seem to have been incredibly brief," he complained.
"I was out with the car this morning," she explained, " before your telegram came, and had just time to go to the station and meet you. I am not sure how much power there is left, and am afraid of exhausting the batteries before we reach home."
But the batteries held out nobly, although she put on such speed that further conversation was impossible until the village of Woodruffe appeared among the trees before them, its tall church-spire overtopping the woods.
Woodruffe proved to be an ideal spot for scientific research, although the practical young man from the City doubted the possibility of building up any very lucrative electrical establishment in a place of such evidently limited demand. A pleasant rivulet of very clear water ran through the hamlet, and beside this stream stood the workshop of Mr. Kemlin, its end to the road cheek by jowl with the narrow stone bridge, which seemed designed long ago for the promotion of motor-car and bicycle accidents, which this shop stood conveniently ready to repair. A splashing water-wheel gave much more rapid motion than its own, by means of a big and little pulley joined by a belt, to a whirring dynamo, which furnished motive-power for lathes and what not as effectually as if the fall of the brook were Niagara itself. The residence stood some distance away, higher up on the brow of a hill, surrounded by a neat garden and backed by a miniature forest.
"By Jove! what a sylvan retreat!" cried young Spofford with admiration. "I declare I'd like to turn electrical engineer myself if I could reside here."
"I'm afraid father doesn't need any new apprentices," said the girl, with a laugh, as she drew up in front of the shop, after very deftly negotiating the rather steep hill.
"Ah! you wait till he and I get acquainted, and perhaps he may take me on in some capacity," said the young man, springing down and assisting her to alight.
The young woman appeared to think that this remark needed no response. At any rate, she made none, but led the way into the workshop, and down the central passage with whirring machinery and men at benches on either hand, until she came to a room the width of the building at the further end, where an absorbed man, who took no notice of their entrance, was bending over some calculations he was making on paper pinned to a drawing-board. He did not look up until his daughter touched his arm.
"Father," she said, "this is Mr. Spofford, the writer on scientific subjects for the Daily Argus. He has come down to learn something about your battery."
"How are you?" said Mr. Kemlin absently. "Oh, the battery," he added, waking up a bit—"you mean for the purpose of writing about it?"
"That was my intention," replied the younger man.
"Ah, well, you see, Mr.—Mr.—Mr.——" the electrician looked helplessly at his daughter, and the young man, seeing she was anxiously embarrassed, came easily to the rescue of the situation.
"Spofford is my name, Mr. Kemlin. I see you are like myself, and cannot remember names."
"Ah, yes, Mr. Spofford." Then again he turned to his daughter and said with child-like simplicity: "It seems to me I remember that name. Wasn't it Spofford, my dear, who wrote that account of Edison's battery in the journal you showed me some time ago?"
"Yes, father."
"I recollect your name quite well, Mr. Spofford, although I don't read the papers very much. I haven't time. My reading is mostly scientific works. So far as my alkaline cell is concerned, it is not yet sufficiently advanced for anything to be said about it in public. I am still in the experimental stage, and it would be premature to make any announcement regarding it."
"Oh, father!" cried the girl in a murmur of disappointment, "after Mr. Spofford has so kindly come all this distance, surely you can tell him something about the battery?"
"I'm perfectly willing to tell him everything about it, my dear, but I fear at this point it would be merely deluding the public."
"I assure you, Mr. Kemlin," said the young man earnestly, "if the newspapers of to-day were to wait until a thing was finished before making proclamation of it, they might as well suspend publication. I had the pleasure of a run on your car this morning, and it seemed to me most efficient."
"True, true," agreed Kemlin; "but, you see, that was no test at all. Any battery would have taken the car over the same stretch of road, and some existing types would have carried it much further. I think, then, for the present, it is wiser to say nothing. How did you come to learn of my battery?"
"It is the business of a newspaper to find out everything that is going forward," replied the young man jauntily. He saw that the researcher had no suspicion of the part his daughter had played in the revelation, or had forgotten all about it if he had been told.
"I am sorry you came so far for no purpose," said Mr. Kemlin, his eye wandering over the design on the board. He had not the diplomacy to pretend an interest in this young man's visit, which he too evidently regarded as an annoying interruption. It was also clear that he was in the habit of expecting his daughter to aid him through any outside difficulties. He turned to her now.
"My dear, ever since lunch I have been working out these curves of efficiency, and am just at the point——"
"Father, you haven't had lunch yet," interrupted the girl.
"It was breakfast, then. Would you like to take Mr. Spofford out in the car and show him the country? They tell me it is very pretty, Mr. Spofford."
"We have just returned from a trip of twenty-five miles," said the girl, with a sigh. "I am going up to the house now, father, to see how lunch is getting on."
"That's right, my dear, that's right. Good-bye, Mr. Spofford; I am sorry your long journey results in nothing, but by and by something may come of it," and he shook hands with the young man so enthusiastically that Spofford would have laughed had it not been for the expression of deep distress on the girl's face.
"Father," she said, almost with severity, "you know there is no train till four o'clock, and Mr. Spofford is staying with us to lunch."
"Ah, yes, of course. I go to town so seldom that I forget about the trains. Then I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again, Mr. Spofford."
This was said with such an inflection of deep regret that the writer had to laugh in spite of himself.
"The railway seems determined that I shall remain in Woodruffe for some hours yet; besides, the battery in the motor-car is exhausted, so there is no escape by road."
"Oh, we could recharge it in ten minutes," cried the elder man, with a gleam of hope.
"It's no use, Mr. Kemlin; my own battery is exhausted, and you can't recharge that in ten minutes, unless you've got a quick-lunch establishment in Woodruffe, which I doubt. My rapid tour through this district has given me a substantial hunger which must be appeased, so I warn you that I'm going to accept your daughter's kind invitation."
The girl was at the door by this time, not looking backwards; and as the young man hastened to open it, he saw that her father, with bent shoulders, was already oblivious of them, absorbed in his curves of efficiency. His daughter walked straight through the humming workshop without a word, almost on the verge of tears. Once outside, into the quiet again, she forced herself to speak.
"I am afraid, Mr. Spofford, you will think us most inhospitable, but——"
"Dear Miss Kemlin, permit me the rudeness of interrupting you. You cannot imagine how delighted I am at Mr. Kemlin's reception of me. Nothing could have been more excellent. If I had had a week to think over the situation, and had stage-managed it myself, I could not have arranged it half so well."
"I am sure I don't understand you."
"You will understand me in a moment. Your idea, and mine, is to see an account of this battery in the Argus. As I told you yesterday, I am far from being all-powerful on the paper. Supreme power is the editor's sphere of usefulness, and I know that when I return there will be something new on the carpet, which will have a tendency to place the battery in the background. Very often articles get as far as type, yet never see the light, being crowded out by something newer or something that is regarded as more important. Now, when I return and give the editor an absolutely truthful account of my reception by Mr. Kemlin, there will be just one thing in the world which that editor desires, and that one thing is an account of the Kemlin battery. The very fact that your father almost turned me off the premises, and that I persisted in spite of him, makes the appearance of my article inevitable."
They had walked up the hill together, and now paused at the gate of the house.
"You will come in?" she inquired.
"Not just yet, Miss Kemlin. If you will tell me the hour I am to be here, you may depend upon my promptness. I wish to take a stroll through the village, see the old church, and get a nearer view of that charming water-wheel."
He held the gate open for her, but she still stood irresolutely, then spoke slowly and with hesitation, a touching expression, almost of appeal, in her troubled eyes.
"I have no adviser. I have neither mother, brother, nor sister. I fear it was an unmaidenly act for me to call boldly on you as I did yesterday."
"Indeed it was nothing of the sort," said Spofford stoutly.
"I can't explain understandingly just what caused me to do it. I was thinking only of my father; and to me, somehow, a great newspaper was an impersonal thing, and I did not expect—it seemed to me—I did not know—I'm afraid I cannot explain just why the situation seems changed."
"Oh, I can explain it, Miss Kemlin. You did not expect to meet a friend, and I assure you, you met a very true friend, if you will allow me to say as much."
"I was thinking of my father," she continued, with some semblance of the dreaminess of the man she had mentioned. "He truly follows the Biblical injunction, and takes no thought for the morrow, and I—I fear the future. Now that you have met my father, you will understand why it was of no use to consult with him. He knows nothing of what I have done, and would not remember it for an hour if I told him; and now I seem to have got you here under false pretences, as it were."
"Miss Kemlin," said the young man, with great seriousness, "the adviser is here, such as he is, if you will let him advise. Have no anxiety about the future, for the future must be good, or I shall be a very disappointed man."
"Thank you for your encouragement," she said, with a smile that seemed to chase away in part the melancholy that had surrounded her. "And now let the adviser be here at half past one. Meanwhile, I must look to the immediate future," and with that she left him to investigate the resources of the village.
On his return to the house, he encountered Mr. Kemlin, slowly toiling up the hill, and found it was necessary to reintroduce himself. An ancient housekeeper presided at lunch, and her volubility more than compensated for Mr. Kemlin's silence. She was greatly fluttered at the advent of a visitor from town, and explained to him over and over again that she had had no warning of his coming. It seemed that nothing more practical was to be expected from either Mr. Kemlin or his daughter; but next time he visited Woodruffe, the housekeeper assured him, he should have a meal more in accordance with pampered City appetites. Jack Spofford affirmed that he had never before encountered so excellent a repast—which, indeed, might have been true enough, for the young man was exceedingly hungry.
One result of this second meeting with Mr. Kemlin was that he reluctantly gave his consent to the writing of the proposed article on his cell, and so, equipped with plans and full particulars, the energetic young fellow wrote his account on his way to town, and had it finished and corrected before he reached the terminus.
However, his promptness did not meet the reward it deserved, because cannons began to fire in the East, and it was nearly three weeks before the article appeared; but during those three weeks he managed to make another journey to Woodruffe, taking the proof of the article with him, because, of course, one desires to be extremely accurate as well as readable in these things. The proof, of course, might have been sent by post, but a personal interview with scientific authority is always preferable. Not that he neglected the mails, either, for many communications passed between himself and the young lady, and sometimes they took the form of interesting books which were not invariably treatises on electricity.
When at last the article appeared, he sent down a bundle of copies containing it, and later a bunch of clippings from an agency showing how extracts had been made from it all over the country. After this bunch of extracts had gone, there was a lull, with no particular reason for further correspondence, unless the young man had ingenuity enough to find a suitable excuse. This did not take him long, for, as has been indicated, he was an ingenious person. After a suitable beginning, he had the audacity to write as follows—
"The other night, being lucky enough to see the moon over my right shoulder, I remembered your allusion to Dickens's account of the coach ride. I have succeeded in finding the extract you referred to. Sinking for the moment the jealousy of one writing-man against another, I will admit that it is first-rate. Nevertheless, I should like to have a chance of rivalling it. Most people would call this cheek, but I call it ambition. If I went to Woodruffe on the evening train when the moon gets a little brighter, do you think it would be possible for me to enjoy a moonlight ride on that swift little car that brought me from the station?"
He waited impatiently for a reply to this, and it came much sooner than he anticipated. It was a bulky envelope that reached him, and on tearing it open he found it contained several documents besides the letter which Miss Kemlin had written. The girl apparently had failed to estimate the exact intentions of his communication.
"Dear Mr. Spofford," she wrote—
"It will be quite possible for you to enjoy the moonlight ride you speak of if you can spare a day or two down here learning to run the car. Indeed, your suggestion seems almost providential, for I have recently been in considerable trouble, not knowing quite what to do. The enclosed documents are copies of a contract which my father has entered into with a man named Blake, who has been here several times from town on his own high-powered petrol automobile, which he finds faster than the train. I think my father should not have signed these papers without consulting me; but as it is done, I suppose there is no help for it. The battery, as at present constructed, certainly will not carry the car from Woodruffe to town without recharging. Father is so anxious for money to carry on his experiments that he would sign anything which seemed to promise such an outcome. He tells me he is certain that some improvements he has made will give longer life to the battery; but he has thought that before. If you read the contract, you will see that in event of failure, all rights in this battery practically pass into the hands of Blake. Of course, if the car succeeds in making the journey, Blake is to pay father the sum stated every month until his experiments are finished. Father endeavoured to calm my fears by saying that Blake had assured him he would pay this amount in any case, and also make proper compensation to him when he formed the manufacturing company; but the contract doesn't say this, and I fear verbal arrangements may not be kept. The trial is to take place at night, so as to avoid the traffic near town, and it is to be on the night of the full moon, or the first good night after, as the weather at this time of the year is rather uncertain. Father is either to drive the car himself or to furnish a driver who will look after his interests. Blake puts on some man from town. Now, as father is too absent-minded to be trusted on a car even in daylight, he would wreck himself and anyone else who was with him before he had gone five hundred yards. I thought, after receiving your letter, that as you are anxious for a moonlight experience on a motor-car, you might learn to drive, and could represent father on that occasion. But I am certain that the battery will never accomplish the task set to it. Please tell me what you think of these contracts."
The letter which Irene Kemlin received in answer to this was cheering and comforting, as the advertisements say. It is always a brightening episode to get an epistle from an optimistic man. Here is part of it.
"Don't worry. I know old Blake, who is a company promoter and a scoundrel. Perhaps I'm using terms unnecessarily synonymous. The contracts I shall take to a legal friend, and hear what he thinks of them. If I did not know Blake, I should say on reading them that they could be nullified for contravening the Gambling Act. What they record is practically a bet; but, on the other hand, Blake employs the best legal advice, which has kept him out of prison up to date, so the documents will probably stand. But if the worst comes to the worst, I can frighten him off. Luckily he is as timid as a rabbit, and there is nothing he is so much afraid of as a newspaper. Newspaper terrorism is always used in the interests of the dear public, of course, and while it is going on, proprietors are liable to get nervous about libel suits. Blake's Ethereal Telephone swindle has not been forgotten yet, and I may have occasion to remind him of the fact. However, that's only as a last resource. I have a plan that charms me. In the old days the saying was: 'Fight the devil with fire,' but the modern rendition is: fight him with electricity. I'll let you know all about it when I reach Woodruffe; meanwhile, if Blake visits you again, give no hint that you are acquainted with me. It is not worth while to warn your father, as I am sure he has forgotten me entirely."
After this letter was despatched, young Spofford called at the sumptuous offices of Blake and Co. and insisted on seeing the great man himself. After waiting in another room for longer than he liked, he was admitted to the presence.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Blake. Perhaps you don't remember me. I'm Spofford, of the Argus .
"I remember you very well," said the financier with great urbanity. "What can I do for you?"
"You read my article on the Kemlin motor, of course? A motor and a promoter go together, you know."
Mr. Blake was good enough to laugh at this, and the laughter gave him time to consider his reply.
"I think I saw it," he said with a noncommittal air. "Why?"
"The Argus learns that you are likely to be interested in it, and I've come to get particulars. I shan't make any use of them until you are quite ready to see them in print."
"There are no particulars to give at the present moment. I admit I am investigating: and if the tests prove satisfactory, I may have something to communicate to you later on."
Jack Spofford rose with a weary look on his face and heaved a deep sigh.
"Good-bye," he said and then, as if on second thoughts: "I should think, Mr. Blake, you have had enough experience with journalists to know better than to give them extra trouble."
"I don't in the least understand what you mean," said Blake in apparent perplexity.
"Pardon me, but you do. You refuse to give me information. Very well; you are quite within your rights. What happens? I am determined to get that information. I'll take that beastly journey down to Woodruffe, where I went in the first place to see the battery. Before forty-eight hours, or half that time, or quarter that time, I'm in possession of all I want to know. I'm not indebted to you for it, therefore I spread it broadcast to the world, possibly at the most inopportune moment so far as you are concerned. On the other hand, you make your statement to me here. I am then indebted to you and saved a lot of bother. You have my word of honour that I shall publish nothing until you are ready for it, and you are very well aware that I shall not break my word once I give it."
"Sit down, Mr. Spofford, sit down," said the financier soothingly. "There is not the least need in getting excited about this affair, for there is really nothing in it. If you tell me what the Argus already knows, I shall be glad either to corroborate or deny; and if you give me your word that you will publish nothing, nor use my name in connection with it, I shall be delighted to place all the facts at your disposal. Now, in the first place, what is your version of it?"
"I have no version in particular. I hear there's to be a motor-race from Woodruffe to this office."
"There is to be no race," said Blake suavely. "There is simply to be a private test of endurance. There will be but one car, and two persons riding in it, with no control, no stop-watches, no timing, but merely a trial to determine the life of the cell. They may reach here in three hours, or they may take all night to do it."
"Night?" cried Spofford in surprise. "Why night? Why not make the test in daylight."
"Oh, for several reasons. In the first place, there will be moonlight; in the second place, there will be less traffic on the road; in the third place, we want to do this as quietly as possible."
"Which means you don't want to have a newspaper article written on it just now?"
"Frankly, I do not."
"I hope you see now, Mr. Blake, the wisdom of complete frankness. I'd have found all this out within the next day or two, and our men would be stationed along the road when you made your trial. As it is, I pledge you my word that no hint of this shall be given in print until you are ready."
"I'm sure I am very much obliged to you," returned Blake.
Spofford's eyes were fixed ruminatively upon the ceiling.
"That would make a fine story," he murmured. "‘The Midnight Ride.' 'Scenes on the Road.' 'Secret Test of the Kemlin Battery,' of which the Argus gave the first hint to the public. The right man could make a thrilling article of that, Mr. Blake."
"I have your word, Mr. Spofford."
"Certainly, certainly. But the beauty of this article is that time is not the essence of the contract; which, being translated, means that the contribution would be just as good in the Argus a year from now as to-day. Here is what I propose. I'll write that midnight trip as well as I can, and I'll leave my copy with you until you give the word to publish. You have the right to place a man on board the car, I suppose, or do you furnish the two men?"
"Mr. Kemlin supplies the driver, and an appointee of my own sits beside him."
"Oh, that's first-rate. I wish you'd appoint me as your representative, or, if there is room for a third on the car, let me be the extra man."
"No, there is room for but two. I have no objection to your going if you promise me to see that Kemlin's driver doesn't put in another set of batteries on the way, or recharge the batteries already there."
"Oh, I promise that. I'll make a note of everything that Kemlin's driver does, tell you whether the car breaks down or not, and how much time is consumed in making repairs. I shall have to take notes of all these things, anyhow, and you may as well have the use of them as not. When does this trial take place?"
"On the night of the fifteenth, unless the weather is so bad that you do not care to set out. If it is, then on the first fair night afterwards."
"Right you are. Now, if you will just give me a little note to Mr. Kemlin, constituting me your representative, I shall not trouble you further till after the test."
"Don't you know Mr. Kemlin?"
"I met him, of course, when I learnt the particulars of his invention; but he seemed to be an absent-minded sort of man, and I'm sure he wouldn't recognise me again."
Mr. Blake touched an electric button. A stenographer came in, and he dictated a short note, which, when it was typed, he signed and handed over to the journalist, who thanked him, rose, and took his departure.
Next day, in a quiet village, a little less than half way between town and Woodruffe, Jack Spofford concluded two agreements—one on a financial basis, the other on a basis of friendship. The monetary adjustment consisted of making terms with a temperance tavern that someone should sit up on the night of the fifteenth and keep a kettle boiling, so that a lady arriving any time between twelve and three might have a cap of tea or coffee, with a biscuit or two. The friendly contract was made with the manager of the model printing-works on a back street which employed most of the young people in the village. This establishment, which possessed the latest kind of gas engines, animated by producer gas made on the premises, thus running the newest kind of dynamo, and supplying power to the most modern printing-presses, had on its completion been glorified in an article by Jack Spofford, and the young man feared no refusal in that quarter.
The conspiracy being complete, Jack journeyed on to Woodruffe, and it may as well be admitted first as last that Irene Kemlin was exceedingly glad to see him. He had telegraphed as usual, for, being accustomed to City pavements, he had small affection for that two-mile walk, preferring to do it in an electric car, as no cabs were to be had at Woodruffe station.
"Have you come to take lessons in driving?" she asked, as they set off along the road.
"No, madam, I have not. It may surprise you to be told that I ride on the car to town as Mr. Blake's representative. The contract binds your father to supply a driver."
"He cannot do that!" she cried in dismay, "unless he gets someone from the City; and I should be afraid to trust a stranger, for even if he were honest, he would not understand thoroughly in so short a time the mechanism of the car."
"My dear Miss Kemlin, your father can provide the most expert of drivers merely by saying the word."
"Who, for instance?"
"Yourself, for instance."
"Me? Oh, that is out of the question. Do you think I'm going to drive a car to town through the night, arriving there—oh, it's absurd! it is impossible!"
"Miss Kemlin, you have not considered the question in all its bearings. You will admit you know everything about the car and the batteries. Very well; no one has that knowledge except your father, and he is not to be thought of, as you would be the first to admit. But the point you overlook is this—I shall be there to take care of you."
"That is true," she mused, with a simplicity that made his heart jump with glee.
"We shall have before us the best of roads, and, I hope, a clear, moonlit night. What more could be desired? We'll do the whole journey in four or five hours easily."
The girl shook her head despondently.
"We shall not get within twenty-five miles of town. There will be scarce an atom of energy left when we have completed fifty miles."
"I don't agree with you; but we won't argue that point. If the worst comes to the worst, we are never far from the railway line, and you can easily return home on the train that leaves the terminus at six o'clock in the morning. I've worked it all out. That is the train you are going to take, in any case. We shall reach town about five o'clock, and after reporting at Blake's office—they are to be waiting for us there from half-past three—we will go to the terminus, stow our car in the garage opposite, have an early morning breakfast at the station, and I'll escort you back to Woodruffe. Now, you see, Miss Kemlin, it all depends on you. I have everything planned out, even to the garage opposite the station, and you alone can thwart my project."
"It is very, very kind of you to take all this trouble," she mused, as if speaking to herself.
"If there were anyone else who would do as well," continued the young man, with a ring of honesty in his voice which sounded much more genuine than it actually was, "I shouldn't think of asking this favour from yon, because I quite understand that the night may be chilly, or this eternal rain we've been having may come on again."
"Oh, that doesn't matter; that doesn't matter in the least," exclaimed the girl. "I don't mind the weather at all, and I wonder at myself for hesitating so long that I have given you such an impression. Certainly I shall go, although I fear it is to defeat."
"We'll chance that," cried the jubilant young man.
Everything went well up to the very night of the test, and almost to the moment of starting from Woodruffe.
The little car stood on the summit of the bridge, with Irene Kemlin on one side of it preparing to mount, her veil now drawn down; Jack Spofford on the other; and the foreman taking his last peering round of the little vehicle—when Jack fancied he heard in the still night air the hum as of a gigantic bee away to the south.
"What's that?" he cried in alarm; but before anyone could answer him, there appeared on the brow of the hill the blinding disc of an acetylene lamp; then, as if taking a dive into space, down there plunged to the front of the shop the forty-horse-power automobile belonging to Jackson Blake, drawing up with a convulsive shudder almost at their very feet. Fortunately the exclamation which Jack uttered, and which is quite unfit for print, was drowned by the muffled roar of the machine, which panted and quivered there, though it had come to a standstill. The party in the big automobile consisted of a mécanicién wearing a long, black, rubber coat, and horrifying goggles that gave him the appearance of some monster escaped from a pantomime, while in the rear seats were two young men in fur overcoats like brown bears. Mr. Blake himself was not there; indeed, it could hardly have been expected that an elderly gentleman of his wealth should care for an automobile tour at this time of night. The mécanicién was sombre and taciturn, but the two young men were exceedingly jolly, and Spofford surmised that, late as was the hour, stimulants had not been lacking on the way thither. All three got out, the driver opening the tool-chest, taking therefrom a wrench, and tightening a bolt here and there. One of the young men approached the foreman and said: "You are Mr. Kemlin, I think?"
"No, sir, Mr. Kemlin is not here; I am his foreman."
"Ah, just so. This is the little machine, is it?" and he walked jauntily round the electric car. "Well, do you think you're going to make town in that perambulator before morning?"
"We're going to have a try, sir," said the foreman grimly.
"Just so, just so," genially responded the bear—"nothing like having a try, is there? If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. Just so. Well, my friend, we'll stand by and tow you into port when your power gives out."
"Am I to understand," said Jack Spofford, with sinking heart, as he stepped forward, "that you represent Mr. Blake?"
"Just so," said the bear, with a laugh. "You are Mr. Spofford, I suppose?"
"Yes, I am; and furthermore, I am the authorised representative of Mr. Blake. He said nothing of any others to me."
"Oh, that's all right," returned the bear, with a jaunty wave of his paw; "he told us about you, so honours are even."
"That's all very well," protested Jack hotly; "but Mr. Blake cannot change the conditions of this contest at the last moment without the concurrence of Mr. Kemlin."
"I understood you were to represent Mr. Blake on the electric car," said the bear.
"So I am."
"Just so. Well, it seems to me that if any protest is to arise against our presence, it should come from the other side. In other words, I don't think Mr. Blake's action should be criticised by his own man."
Jack Spofford was quick to see he had made a mistake in tactics. He realised in an instant that he had underestimated Blake's shrewdness, and he wondered why it had not occurred to him before that the financier might not have been convinced by the reason tendered him for Spofford's desire to take part in the contest. In any case, it was poor diplomacy to bring himself into opposition with those who were supposed to be on his own side.
"You quite misunderstand me," said Jack Spofford. "If you are here on behalf of Mr. Blake, there is nothing more to be said; but I want to see your credentials, being prepared to show my own."
"Just so. We don't dispute your credentials, and don't intend to produce any of our own. You must remember that, according to law, the road is as free for us as for you. We're here to follow your car until it reaches Mr. Blake's office."
"That's all right," cried Jack, with an outburst of candour; "your reasons are unanswerable. I did not recognise Mr. Blake's car; in fact, I never saw it before, but the foreman here tells me he knows the car. I am merely looking after the interests of my principal, and naturally, when a pair of strangers came up at the last moment, I thought it my duty to Mr. Blake to make inquiry."
"Just so, just so, just so," repeated the bear. "Come and have a drink with us, and then you'll feel better."
"Thank you, I don't drink so early in the morning, and am anxious to be off. Foreman, is this car ready for the road?"
Spofford walked round to the other side of the car, pretending to examine it.
"Foreman," whispered Jack, as they bent their heads together on the further side of the electric car, "here's a chance to earn more money than you ever made in a night before. For Heaven's sake unscrew some nut or other that will make the automobile of those chaps break down!"
"I don't need any money for that," murmured the foreman in return. "I saw how the land lay; and while you were talking, I shoved a nail through the back tyre. It will shake out before they've gone a mile, and after that—well, I expect them back here—it will take some time to mend. Where do you want them to catch up to you, sir?"
"Oh, about twenty miles from town, or thereabouts."
"Right you are."
Jack Spofford silently shook hands with the foreman under cover of the car; and this shows that when a man goes wrong, he is apt to lead others astray as well.
"I think we're all ready, Miss Kemlin," said Spofford, whereupon Irene sprang up to her seat, grasping steering-rod and switch-handle, Jack taking his place by her side.
"Oho!" cried the vulgar bear, laughing outright, "that's the arrangement, is it? My son, I apologise. I was young myself once."
Spofford said nothing, and closed his lips tightly so that he could continue saying nothing. The two young men in furs seemed to consider the situation exceedingly comical.
"Turn the auto' round, John; we must keep an eye on those two."
Miss Kemlin stared straight ahead of her, pulled the starting-lever one notch towards her, and the little car darted down the incline formed by the bridge, then climbed the opposing hill at half speed until they reached the top.
"Now," said Jack, "full speed ahead, and let us get clear of those brutes."
She made no reply further than the practical one of pulling the lever notch by notch towards her, each notch producing a thrilling little emphasis, which was maintained until the car swung forward to the extent of its power. Behind them they heard the throb of the powerful giant that followed.
In a few minutes it was right on their with their heels, with the acetylene lamp contending with the moonlight on the road. Then the giant swung aside and passed them almost as if they were standing still, while the hilarious young men made the air vibrate ringing cheers.
"We'll wait for you further on!" one of them shouted.
"Yes, I know you will," Jack muttered under his breath.
Although the night seemed as bright as day, yet it was not so, for the leviathan disappeared in the haze almost before they realised it had passed them.
After travelling rapidly for a mile or two, the girl leaned forward, pushing the lever from her and slowing the machine.
"What's that ahead?" she cried.
"I suspect it's our friends of the fur coats."
The electric car stole silently up to them, the big automobile stood square in the middle of the road, and all three had dismounted, seemingly holding a consultation together.
"What's wrong?" cried Spofford, trying to keep the glee from his voice and throw a trace of anxiety into his inquiry.
"Oh," cried one of the bears, much subdued, "we seem to have picked up a nail, worse luck!"
"I think there is room to pass," whispered Spofford to his comrade, and she moved the car slowly alongside and by.
"Well, we'll wait for you further on!" cried Spofford, flinging their own remark to them over his shoulder. There was no reply.
They sped on through the night in silence, Irene too intent on watching the road to say anything; Jack too intent listening in deep apprehension for the throb of an engine on the road behind, and too anxious about the safe accomplishment of the scheme he had laid out. They ran through sleeping village after sleeping village.
"I hope," said Irene, "we won't pick up a nail."
"We won't pick up that nail," replied Jack, with a laugh. "I suppose it is selfish of me, but I'm glad they were in front of us."
At last they came to the village which held the printing-office.
"Now, Miss Kemlin, you will get down here. You have done nobly. Please come to a stand at the next corner."
"Why?" she asked.
"Because I have arranged with the people to sit up and have a hot cup of tea and a biscuit ready for you."
"I really don't need it, Mr. Spofford, and I'm so anxious about the batteries. I fear they will not last much longer."
"We won't cross a bridge till we come to it, Miss Kemlin. Here's our spot, and there's 'a light in the window for thee,' I see."
"It is very kind of you," she murmured, "and I think I should enjoy a cup of tea, after all."
"Of course you will. Now I am going to take this machine down the street a bit, and conceal it, in the hope that those fellows will pass us meanwhile."
He sprang down and assisted her to alight: and, indeed, she needed his help, for now that the strain was relaxed she seemed rather numb, so that she almost fell into his outstretched arms. He knocked at the door, which was at once opened, although the woman waiting for them was rather sleepy as she bade them welcome. A good fire was glowing on the open hearth, and an iron kettle singing merrily. Irene Kemlin took off her gloves and held out her hands to the warmth.
"You will come back and have tea with me?" she asked.
"Oh, yes, I'll return in a few moments."
He drove the car round the corner, and down the side street until he came to the engine-house of the printing-works, which looked ominously dark and silent.
"Hallo, Henry!" he shouted, and was much relieved when the broad door hanging on rollers was shoved back, showing the lighted interior with the big engine and dynamo.
"Well, John, you're here at last. I thought you never were coming."
"Are you ready for me?"
"Ready and waiting this two hours. Just run the car right inside, so that I can close the door. If you are doing something surreptitious, as I suspect, let us not throw any unnecessary light on the roadway."
Spofford ran the car inside, and the other drew the door shut again. The electrician tested the battery.
"Not much power left there," he said: then there was silence until he had attached the wires and started the gas engine.
"Now, Henry, you pump it in for ten minutes. I'm going down to the corner to have a cup of tea, having made arrangements to that effect."
"Then I am not the only person to sit up all night? Now, let me tell you, my lad, that ten minutes' pumping, as you call it, isn't going to do much good to a storage battery."
"Have faith, Henry, have faith. It'll do some good to that one. You keep your engine going until I store some tea, then I'll discuss electricity with you if you like," and with that the young man disappeared into the moonlight.
On returning to the temperance inn, he found a little table set before the fire, covered with a white cloth and a most tempting array of eatables. Irene had waited for him, and now poured out the tea. Not until this moment had he realised how cold it was outside. Irene looked dreamily drowsy, her fine eyes heavy with sleep, as if she were a very small girl who had been kept up too late. Jack was wide awake, and talked breezily, with many flashes of wit, to which his companion made no reply, merely smiling at the way he was running on. He thought she had never looked so entrancing as now, and wished that these were the old days, and they were on the way towards Gretna Green.
"Good Heavens!" he cried suddenly, looking at his watch, "the ten minutes are passed!"
"What ten minutes?" she asked.
"Oh!" he stammered, "we must be off! Mentally I allowed ourselves just ten minutes over this tea. I must go at once for the car."
"I suppose you must," she said with a sigh of reluctance.
Without another word he was away, pausing for a moment outside the door to listen for the hum of the big motor; but the night was intensely still. He sped round the corner to the engine-house on the run, praying his luck might hold for a few minutes longer. The big engine was motionless, and Henry had turned round the motor-car facing the door.
"I have given it twelve minutes," he said, "and have tested the battery. Actually it seems to be fully charged."
"Of course it is. When you want to learn the latest news regarding electricity, call on your humble servant at the Argus office."
"Are you going to town right away?"
"Yes."
"Well, as my night's rest is a thing of the past, I don't mind going with you."
"Henry, take warning. Motoring is a dangerous occupation, especially at night, and more especially on a moonlit night. Take my advice and the early morning train."
"Well, that's gratitude! Here have I sat up all night——"
"Yes, and made me for ever your debtor. Truth to tell, Henry, I have a passenger waiting for me down in the tea-garden."
"Oho! then it's a case of two's company?"
"Exactly."
"An elopement?"
"No; I wish it was."
"All right, my lad; I'll take your advice and the morning train. Good luck to you!"
As Jack halted in front of the temperance tavern, he listened again; but all was still, as if no such thing as a forty-horse-power automobile existed in this slumbering world. Miss Kemlin was standing in the road waiting for him.
"That poor woman was just stupid with sleep," she said, "so I came outside."
Jack, glancing at the house, saw it was already dark.
"Are you going to drive?" she asked.
"Yes, if you will allow me. I shall go at half speed and steer very carefully. You hap yourself up, lean back, and be happy."
"Is that a pun?" she asked, taking the hand he offered her and climbing up.
"No, it is very sober earnest. I shouldn't think of punning with such serious business ahead of me."
"Perhaps you had better let me drive, after all."
"No; the section in the immediate future must be accomplished by myself alone."
"I'll assist if you get into any difficulties."
"Please remember that promise. I hold you to it."
They were now trundling along the highway at half speed. The moon was already getting well down towards the west.
"We are not going very fast" he said; "yet now begins our actual race with the moon to the tune of 'Yo ho! Yo ho!’"
"I thought it began at midnight."
"No, this is the real race."
"I think you drive very well," she encouraged him.
"Thank you. I hope I shall not wreck myself."
"Us, you mean."
"No, myself."
His foot accidentally touched the knob that rang the bell, and the unexpected sound in the quiet of the night made him jump, while the car swerved rather startlingly. He brought it up on its course again, while the girl laughed.
"I think," she said, "if you are going to talk, you had better let me drive."
"I declare I'm quite nervous. Still, I persist in driving and talking too. I wanted to ask you, Miss Kemlin, if you think me a selfish man?"
"What a ridiculous question! Of course you are not."
"It grieves me to state that I am. This journey was taken by me for a reason that you have not guessed. I am more selfish than old Blake. He wants your father's battery, I want your father's daughter."
Now she leaned back in her seat, as he had just before recommended her to do; and glancing sideways at her, to the imminent danger of the car, he saw that her eyes were closed.
The young man recklessly pulled the switch-lever as far towards him as it would go, and from then onwards was compelled to attend strictly to the steering of the car. The girl said nothing, nor did she make any effort to interfere with his management of the machine, although his guidance was somewhat awe-inspiring, rather trying to the nerves if his passenger had been timid. The silent miles glided swiftly to the rear; lower and lower sank the moon, and now, becoming more confident as he turned his glance momentarily from the road, and rewarded himself with a look at her face, he saw a new and delicate light upon it, which had been in shadow before, because she sat to the westward of him, between himself and the moon.
"There is another race with the moon," he said. "The victorious dawn is breaking."
"Yes," she replied simply, "and I see signs of the City ahead of us."
"That means victory for us, Irene."
"I think it does," she replied very softly, and silence fell once more between them, to be broken at last by an exclamation of impatience from the young man.
"There is that confounded automobile catching up to us again. I wish it would select another nail on the road."
"So do I," answered the girl, at which they both laughed.
"You haven't answered my question," he said hastily.
"You haven't asked me any."
"Haven't I? I thought I did, and a very important one to me."
"No, you made a statement of preference which was very important to me," echoed the girl in a voice not much above a whisper.
"Hallo, young people! you've got this far, have you?" roared the unwelcome bear, as the giant automobile came alongside on the road, which was now of ample width.
"Yes," said Spofford, "we have made some progress since we saw you last."
One of the bears was curled up, evidently sound asleep, in the tonneau; the other did not seem to be too thoroughly awake, and his voice was scarcely within his control.
"It's a case of 'We won't go home till morning!' isn't it?" he cried genially. "Lemme offer you—offer you something to drink."
"No, thank you."
"Do you good," said the bear.
"Thank you very much, but I never begin drinking before six a.m., and stop promptly at eleven p.m. Between eleven p.m. and six a.m. I touch nothing intoxicating."
"Good boy," approved the bear—"nothing like a regulated life. I love a temperate man, though I don't practise much at it myself. Electricity still holding out? That's astonishing!"
"Oh, no, it isn't astonishing at all. You see, instead of drinking the stimulant you so generously offered, I poured a bottle or two into the cells. That accounts for it."
"Just so, just so; splendid idea! Wonder no one ever thought of that before. Well, I'm sleepy; and if you'll excuse me, we'll go on."
"Do," cried "Spofford heartily. "I'll tell old Blake you accomplished your mission to everyone's satisfaction."
"Thanks, dear boy, thanks. We'll wait for you in town, sign papers, or anything else you want. Remarkable little car that of yours," and the big automobile, with a spurt, plunged on ahead and left them alone once more.
"It is a remarkable car," murmured Jack contentedly. "A golden chariot, carrying us from Woodruffe to Paradise. Isn't that true, Irene?"
"I think so," she sighed, placing her hand in his.
Copyright, 1905, by Robert Barr, in the United States of America
This work was published before January 1, 1930, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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