Barry Houston was now a prisoner of speed,--cramped in the seat of a runaway car, clutching tight at the wheel, leaning, white, tense-faced, out into the snow, as he struggled to negotiate the turns, to hold the great piece of runaway machinery to the crusted road and check its speed from time to time in the snowbanks.
A mile more--halted at intervals by the very thing which an hour or so before Barry Houston had come almost to hate, the tight-packed banks of snow--then came a new emergency.

One chance was left, and Barry took it,--the "burring" of the gears in lieu of a brake.

The snow was fading now, the air was warmer; a mile or so more and he would be safe from that threat which had driven him down from the mountain peaks,--the possibility of death from exposure, had he, in his light clothing, attempted to spend the night in the open.

If the burred gears could only hold the car for a mile or so more-- But a sudden, snapping crackle ended his hope.

The gears had meshed, and meshing, had broken.