The speed fiend of progress had him by the neck.

Horses were too slow for Casey.

Moreover, when he began to think about it, he knew that the thirty-mile stretch between Pinnacle and Lund had become too tame for him, too monotonous.

He knew in the dark every twist in the road, every sharp turn, and he could tell you offhand what every sharp turn had cost him in the past month, either in repairs to his own car or to the car that had unluckily met him without warning.

For Casey, I must tell you, habitually forgot all about that earsplitting klaxon at his left elbow.