Then it occurred to me that Hawkins' wife would later wish to know what
his dying words had been, and I went into the auto with a flying leap,
sent it about in its own length, almost jumped the hedge, and thus started
upon a race whose memory will haunt me when greater things have faded into
the forgotten past.

My runabout, while hardly a racer, is supposed to have some pretty speedy
machinery stored away in it, but the engine had a big undertaking in
trying to overhaul that old mare.

It was painfully apparent that something--possibly righteous indignation at
being the victim of one of Hawkins' experiments--had roused a latent devil
within Maud S. Her heels were viciously threshing up the dirt at the foot
of the hill before I began my blood-curdling coast at the top.

How under the sun anything could go faster than did that automobile is
beyond my conception; yet when I reached the level ground again and
breathed a little prayer of thanks that an all-wise Providence had spared
my life on the hill, Hawkins seemed still to have the same lead.

That he was traveling like a hurricane was evidenced by the wake of
fear-maddened chickens and barking dogs that were just recovering their
senses when I came upon them.

I put my lever back to the last notch.

Heavens, how that auto went! It rocked from one side of the road to the
other. It bounded over great stones and tried to veer into ditches, with
the express purpose of hurling me to destruction.