Behind him sounded the swift droning of a motor, cut-out open, as it rushed forward along the road,--and the noise told a story of speed.
Far at the brow of a steep hill it appeared, seeming to hang in space for an instant before leaping downward.

Rushing, plunging, once skidding dangerously at a small curve, it made the descent, bumped over a bridge, was lost for a second in the pines, then sped toward him, a big touring car, with a small, resolute figure clinging to the wheel.
The quarter of a mile changed to a furlong, the furlong to a hundred yards,--then, with a report like a revolver shot, the machine suddenly slewed in drunken fashion far to one side of the road, hung dangerously over the steep cliff an instant, righted itself, swayed forward and stopped, barely twenty-five yards away.

Staring, Robert Fairchild saw that a small, trim figure had leaped forth and was waving excitedly to him, and he ran forward.
His first glance had proclaimed it a boy; the second had told a different story.

A girl--dressed in far different fashion from Robert Fairchild's limited specifications of feminine garb--she caused him to gasp in surprise, then to stop and stare.

Again she waved a hand and stamped a foot excitedly; a vehement little thing in a snug, whipcord riding habit and a checkered cap pulled tight over closely braided hair, she awaited him with all the impatience of impetuous womanhood.
"For goodness' sake, come here!" she called, as he still stood gaping.
"I 'll give you five dollars.