disappointing. He would stand no chance of even hearing what he was
like. Now if he went through Sabbath Valley, Red or Sloppy or Rube
would be sure to sight a strange car, particularly if it was a _high
power_ racer or something of that sort, and they could discuss it,
and he might be able to find out a few points about this unknown, whom
he was so nobly delivering for conscience sake--or Lynn Severn's--from
an unknown fate. Of course he wouldn't let the fellows know he knew
anything about the guy.

He had lain there fifteen minutes and was beginning to grow drowsy
after his full day in the open air. If it were not for the joke of the
thing he couldn't keep awake.

Pat stole out from the weeds at the slope of the road and whispered
sepulchraly:

"That's all right, Kid, jest you lay there and hold that pose. You
couldn't do better. Yer wheel finishes the blockade. Nobody couldn't
get by if he tried. That's the Kid! 'Clare if I don't give you another
five bucks t'morrer if you carry this thing through. Don't you get cold
feet now--!"

Billy uttered a guttural of contempt in his throat and Pat slid away to
hiding once more. The distant bells struck the midnight hour. Billy
thrilled with their sweetness, with the fact that they belonged to him,
that he had sat that very evening watching those white fingers among
the keys, manipulating them. He thought of the glint on her hair,--the
halo of dusty gold in the sunshine above--the light in her eyes--the
glow of her cheek--her delicate profile against the memorial window--
the glint of her hair--it came back, not in those words, but the vision