“This is a bear of a car,” Johnny glowed, all atingle now with the adventure and its flavor of mystery.  “I didn’t know you had two.  I was looking for the red one.”

“I forgot to tell you.”  Which Johnny felt was a lie, because Cliff Lowell did not strike him as the kind of man who forgot things.  “Yes, I keep two.  This is good for long trips when I want to take luggage—­and so on.”  His tone did not invite further conversation.  He seemed absorbed now in his driving; and his driving, Johnny decided, was enough to absorb any man.  Yard by yard he was sending the big-nosed car faster ahead, until the pointer on the speedometer seemed to want to rest on 35.  Still, they did not seem to be going so very fast, except that they overhauled and passed everything else on the road, and not once did a car overhaul and pass them.  Cliff glanced often into the mirror, watching the road behind them for the single speeding light of a motor cop—­because Los Angeles County, as you are probably aware, does not favor thirty-five miles an hour for automobiles, but has fixed upon twenty-five as a safe and sane speed at which the general public may travel.

But Cliff was wary, chance favored them with fairly clear roads, and the miles slid swiftly behind.  They ate at San Juan Capistrano not much past the hour which Johnny had all his life thought of as supper time.  Cliff filled the gas tank, gave the motor a pint of oil and the radiator about a quart of water, turned up a few grease cups and applied the nose of the oil can here and there to certain bearings.  He did it all with the fastidious air of a prince democratically inclined to look after things himself, the air which permeated his whole personality and made Johnny continue calling him Mr. Lowell, in spite of a life-long habit of applying nicknames even to chance acquaintances.

Cliff climbed in and settled himself.  “We want to make it in time to get some hunting at daylight,” he observed in a tone which included the fellow at the service station who was just pocketing his money for the gas and oil.  “I think we can, with luck.”

Luck seemed to mean speed and more speed, The headlights bored a white pathway through the dark, and down that pathway the car hummed at a fifty-mile clip where the road was straight.  Johnny got thrills of which his hardy nerves had never dreamed themselves capable.  Riding the sky in the Thunder Bird was tame to the point of boredom, compared with riding up and over and down and around a squirmy black line with the pound of the Pacific in his ears and the steady beat of the motor blending somehow with it, and the tingle of uncertainty as to whether they would make the next sharp curve on two wheels as successfully as they had made the last.  Mercifully, they met no one on the hills.  There were straight level stretches just beyond reach of the tide, and sometimes two eyes would glare at them, growing bigger and bigger.  There would be a swoo—­sh as a dark object shot by with mere inches to spare, and the eyes would glare no longer.  By golly, Johnny would have a car or know the reason why!  He’d bet he could drive one as well as Cliff Lowell too, once he had the feel of the thing.