"You're a good beast," said Gallegher, plaintively. "You've got more
nerve than me. Don't you go back on me now. Mr. Dwyer says we've got
to beat the town." Gallegher had no idea what time it was as he rode
through the night, but he knew he would be able to find out from a big
clock over a manufactory at a point nearly three-quarters of the
distance from Keppler's to the goal.

He was still in the open country and driving recklessly, for he knew
the best part of his ride must be made outside the city limits.

He raced between desolate-looking corn-fields with bare stalks and
patches of muddy earth rising above the thin covering of snow, truck
farms and brick-yards fell behind him on either side. It was very
lonely work, and once or twice the dogs ran yelping to the gates and
barked after him.

Part of his way lay parallel with the railroad tracks, and he drove
for some time beside long lines of freight and coal cars as they stood
resting for the night. The fantastic Queen Anne suburban stations were
dark and deserted, but in one or two of the block-towers he could see
the operators writing at their desks, and the sight in some way
comforted him.

Once he thought of stopping to get out the blanket in which he had
wrapped himself on the first trip, but he feared to spare the time,
and drove on with his teeth chattering and his shoulders shaking with
the cold.

He welcomed the first solitary row of darkened houses with a faint
cheer of recognition. The scattered lamp-posts lightened his spirits,