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Updated: April 30, 2025
The car is back there, and we'll shoot out to the inn. What do you say? I feel like a house afire this evening, kiddo. What does your speedometer register?" "Charley, aren't you tired painting this old town yet? Ain't there just nothing will bring you to your senses? Honest, this morning's papers are a disgrace. You you won't catch me along again."
With all that tumult of urging, Jack went on, panic again growing within him as the car picked up speed. The faster he went the faster he wanted to go. His foot pressed harder and harder on the accelerator. He glanced at the speedometer, saw it flirting with the figures forty-five, and sent that number off the dial and forced fifty and then sixty into sight.
"That's a fine car," said the sergeant. "It is," said Moriarty, "as fine a one as ever I seen." "The man that owns it will be a high up man," said the sergeant. "He will," said Moriarty. The sergeant looked into the car. He gazed at the steering-wheel with interest. He glanced intelligently at the levers. His eyes rested finally on a speedometer.
All our navigating instruments, quadrant, sextant, and hydrant, with which we had amused ourselves making foolish observations during that morning of the glorious Fourth, our chronometer and speedometer, all had absolutely disappeared. "And there we are!" said Swank. Triplett coughed apologetically and pulled his forelock.
The speedometer on the foot-board registered five miles from the Mount Mitchell house. They had passed two cabins by the way, and still no sign of the third. "Why couldn't she tell us how many miles, I'd like to know?" Jim grumbled. "It's the way of the mountain folk. They're noncommittal on distances." He stopped the car and lighted the lamps. "Going to be dark in a minute," he said.
Then you'd better come back an' take a look at all the cars parked within three or four blocks of here. He may have driven it down when he came to work this mornin'. Look at the speedometer an' see what the mileage record is of the last trip taken. Cole, you go to this address. That's where my cousin lives. Find out at what garage he keeps his car.
His body was so sensitive that it, too, seemed to obey the rudder. Nothing that concerned his voyages was either unknown or negligible to him. He verified all his instruments the map-holder, the compass, the altimeter, the tachometer, the speedometer with searching care. Before every flight he himself made sure that his machine was in perfect condition.
When he really got under way at anything from fifty miles an hour to the limit of the speedometer, which was ninety miles, the gilt tassel, which in the Belgian cap hangs over and touches the forehead, had a way of standing up; the cape overcoat blew out in the air, cutting off my vision and my last hope. I regard that chauffeur as a menace on the high road. Certainly he is not a lady's chauffeur.
When the car was again at its ordinary by no means slow pace, King spoke: "Bless you for a mind reader! That was bully, and blew away a lot of distemper. If you'll just do it again going back I'll submit to the afternoon of a clam in a bed of mud." "Good. We'll beat that record going back, if we break the speedometer.
"Between nervous women in the machine and constables outside I have the twelve-miles-an- hour habit. I'm going to exchange the speedometer for a vacuum bottle." He smiled. "I don't think you're fair to yourself. Mostly if you'll forgive me I can tell a woman's driving as far off as I can see the machine; but you are a very fine driver.
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