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As he climbed into a roadster, he tucked the robe most carefully into a corner under the leather seat. "For heaven's sake, Craig," I gasped from under the robe, "let me have a little air." I had taken my place under the robe before the car was driven up before the apartment, lest some emissary of Wu Fang might be watching to see that there was no such trick.
Jim helped Denny gather up his scientific apparatus. They started across the fields toward Denny's roadster, several hundred yards away Jim, blond and bulking, a hundred and ninety pounds of hardy muscle and bone; Denny wiry and slender, dark-eyed and dark-haired.
Sophie swung the roadster in to the curb before the express office. Thompson got out. "Good-by till this evening, then," he said. "I'll be there if the police don't get me." "If they do," she smiled, "telephone and dad will come down and bail you out. Good-by, Mr. Thompson." Ten minutes or so later he emerged from the express office with a suitcase, a canvas bag, and a roll of blankets.
I looks up to find that it's that sporty neighbor of mine, Nick Barrett, who now and then indulges a fad for an early spin in his stripped roadster. He has collected his particular chum, Norris Bagby, and I expect they're out to burn up the macadam before the traffic cops go on duty. "What's the big idea, Torchy?" sings out Nick. "Going to bury a cat, or something?"
Accordingly, a few nights after they had settled at Cedar Crest, he motored into New York in a roadster Miss Sherwood had placed at his disposal, and after the necessary precautions he entered Hunt's studio. The room was dismantled, and Hunt sat among his packed belongings smoking his pipe.
Like a projectile hurled from a catapult, the swift little roadster shot away down the cottonwood avenue, and with a jerk of the lever into the "high" the second race against time was begun. For the first few miles Patricia's passenger had all he could do to keep his seat.
Mary was in the flower garden that Sunday forenoon when John Ward stopped his big roadster in front of the Martin cottage. It was not at all unusual for the one-time private, John, to call that way for his former superior officer. Nearly every Sunday when the weather was fine the comrades would go for a long ride in John's car somewhere into the country.
He was also somewhat of an object of awe because he went to Baxter City every day, and worked in the bank there. His ramshackle Ford roadster was considered an evidence of the terribly reckless extravagance of his habits, but it was really nothing more than a sort of pocketbook, since all his money went into it, and a very shabby one at that.
Gratton summoned a somnolent taxi-driver and they were whisked through the cool air to a garage. He left her a moment, sitting in the taxi, while he ran in and arranged for a roadster. Gloria, left to her own thoughts, began to regret having come. The thing, reviewed in solitude, was "crazy." She grew vaguely distressed.
Well, we run, and I made "Old Clay" bite in his breath and only beat him by half a neck. A tight scratch says I, that, and it would have sarved me right if I had been beat. I had no business to run an old roadster so everlastin fast, it aint fair on him, is it? Says he, I will double the bet and start even, and run you agin if you dare.
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