Barry accepted the inevitable.

He must go on--and that as swiftly as his crippled machine, the darkness and the twisting, snow-laden, treacherous road would permit.
Once more at the wheel, he snapped on the lights and huddled low, to avail himself of every possible bit of warmth from the clanking, discordant engine.

Slowly the journey began, the machine laboring and thundering with its added handicap of a broken rod and the consequent lost power of one cylinder.

Literally inch by inch it dragged itself up the heavier grades, puffing and gasping and clanking, the rattling rod threatening at every moment to tear out its very vitals.

The heavy smell of burnt oil drifted back to the nostrils of Barry Houston; but there was nothing that he could do but grip the steering wheel a bit tighter with his numbed hands,--and go on.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the indicator of the speedometer measured off a mile in dragging decimals.