"No. It _is_ stuffy in here. Wait--I'll do it myself." Denver pushed
down the upper sash, and returned to his chair. "Well--go on," he
said, filling another pipe. His composure exasperated Granice.

"There's no use in my going on if you don't believe me."

The editor remained unmoved. "Who says I don't believe you? And how
can I tell till you've finished?"

Granice went on, ashamed of his outburst. "It was simple enough, as
you'll see. From the day the old man said to me, 'Those Italians
would murder you for a quarter,' I dropped everything and just
worked at my scheme. It struck me at once that I must find a way of
getting to Wrenfield and back in a night--and that led to the idea
of a motor. A motor--that never occurred to you? You wonder where I
got the money, I suppose. Well, I had a thousand or so put by, and I
nosed around till I found what I wanted--a second-hand racer. I knew
how to drive a car, and I tried the thing and found it was all
right. Times were bad, and I bought it for my price, and stored it
away. Where? Why, in one of those no-questions-asked garages where
they keep motors that are not for family use. I had a lively cousin
who had put me up to that dodge, and I looked about till I found a
queer hole where they took in my car like a baby in a foundling
asylum... Then I practiced running to Wrenfield and back in a
night. I knew the way pretty well, for I'd done it often with the
same lively cousin--and in the small hours, too. The distance is
over ninety miles, and on the third trial I did it under two hours.
But my arms were so lame that I could hardly get dressed the next
morning...