With a series of puffs and chugs a big, shiny motor
cycle turned from the road into the graveled drive at the side of
a white farmhouse. Two boys sat on the creaking saddles. The one
at the front handle bars threw forward the clutch lever, and then
turned on the power sharply to drive the last of the gases out of
the twin cylinders.

The motor cycle came to a stop near a shed, and the two lads,
swinging off, looked at each other for a moment.

"Some ride, that!" observed one. "You had her going then, Blake!"

"Just a little, Joe--yes. It was a nice level stretch, and I
wanted to see what she could do."

"You didn't let her out to the full at that; did you?"

"I should say not!" answered the one who had ridden in front, and
guided the steed of steel and gasoline. "She'll do better than
ninety miles an hour on the level; but I don't want to ride on her
when she's doing it."

"Nor I. Well, it was a nice little run, all right. Funny, though,
that we didn't get any mail; wasn't it?"

"It sure was. I think somebody must be robbing the post-office,
for we ought to have had a letter from Mr. Hadley before this,"
and he laughed at his own joke.