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Updated: May 11, 2025
He remembered having told the mayor he could drive like "Jimmy" Murphy, the racer, when they had sped out of the downtown district and away from possible pursuit. He remembered how he had patched a cut over the mayor's eye, a laceration caused by a piece of the shattered windshield, with the skill of facial repair that he had learned as a second at the Vernon ring.
The mountains had lured again, only that they might clutch him in a tighter embrace of danger than ever. Now the snow was whirling about him in almost blinding swiftness; the small windshield counted for nothing; it was only by leaning far outside the car that he could see to drive and then there were moments that seemed to presage the end.
First thing I hear, the winter-sports club has been organized, snowshoes sent for and a couple of toboggans, and a toboggan slide half a mile long made out in Price's Addition, starting at the top of the highest hill, where Lon's big board sign with the painted bungalow made a fine windshield, and running across some very choice building lots to the foot of the grade, where it stopped on the proposed site of the Carnegie Library.
Scotty took the short, aluminum boat hook from its fastenings in the small cockpit, stood up on the seat, and stepped over the windshield to the bow. For a moment he surveyed the shoreline from his higher vantage point. "There's a place that looks promising." He held the boat hook out like a spear, pointing. Rick put the runabout in gear, and moved forward at idling speed.
Frozen stiff, I was, drivin' right into the wind eastward along East End Avenue, and I had to raise the windshield a bit because there was ice on it and I couldn't see nothin' an' my headlights ain't any too strong." "You didn't stop anywhere?" "No, sir. Wait a minute I did!" "Where?" "At the R.L. and T. railroad crossing, sir. I didn't see nor hear no train there, and almost run into it.
From behind the dimness of the windshield a voice, annoyed, sharp: "Hello there!" She realized that it was Kennicott. The irritation in his voice smoothed out. "Having a walk?" They made schoolboyish sounds of assent. "Pretty wet, isn't it? Better ride back. Jump up in front here, Valborg." His manner of swinging open the door was a command.
To these helpless, homeless, hopeless people, the red-white-and-blue banner that streamed from our windshield really was a flag of the free. Brussels we found as quiet and orderly as London on a Sunday morning. So far as streets scenes went we might have been in Berlin.
The other car, having made no apparent effort to turn out, also stopped within a few feet of Casey, the spotlight fairly blinding him. The young man beside Casey slid up straight in the seat and stopped whistling. He leaned out of the car and stared ahead without the dusty interference of the windshield. "You can back up a few lengths and make the turn-out all right," he suggested.
Fog: a man in a deck chair is playing a trumpet, his feet on the stern railing of a ferry. Fog: a telephone pole seen through a windshield. Sun: a young woman on a bicycle is climbing a cobblestoned street, blonde hair bouncing, white blouse, solid breasts. Sun: a snake falling back to the bank of a stream, a dragonfly in its mouth, dazzling, iridescent.
Anyway, Spike found himself too miserable and too cold to reflect much about his passenger. He drove into a head wind. The sleet slapped viciously against his windshield and stuck there. The patent device he carried for the purpose of clearing rain away refused to work. Spike shoved his windshield up in order to afford a vision of the icy asphalt ahead. And then he grew cold in earnest.
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