his tongue so that it bled. Behind them was confused shouting.

"Better go back and help--what? You hit one," Jack suggested over his
shoulder, slowing down as reason cooled his first hot impulse for
flight.

"Go back _nothing!_ And let 'em get our number? Nothing doing!"

"Aw, that mark that was with him took it. I saw him give it the
once-over when he came back."

"He did not!" some one contradicted hotly. "He was too scared."

"Well, do we go back?" Jack was already edging the car to the right so
that he would have room for a turn.

"No! Step on 'er! Let 'er out, why don't yuh? Damn it, what yuh
killin' time for? Yuh trying to throw us down? Want that guy to call a
cop and pinch the outfit? Fine pal you are! We've got to beat it while
the beatin's good. Go on, Jack--that's a good boy. Step on 'er!"

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. He rode the wheel, holding the great car
true as a bullet down the black streak of boulevard that came sliding
to meet him like a wide belt between whirring wheels.