They sang, they laughed, they told stories, and asked riddles;
they ate sandwiches out of a tin, and drank hot coffee out of a thermos
flask, and congratulated themselves, not once, but a dozen times, over
their own ingenuity in hitting upon such a delightful variation to the
usual Christmas programme.
More than half the distance had been accomplished; the worst part of the
road had been reached, and the car was beginning to bump and jerk in a
somewhat uncomfortable fashion. Jack frowned, and looked at the slight
figure of the chauffeur with a returning doubt.
"He's all right on smooth roads, but this part needs a lot of driving.
Another time----" He set his lips, and mentally rehearsed the complaints
which he would make to "my father" when he paid the bill. Margaret gave
a squeal, and looked doubtfully over the side.
"I--I suppose it's all right! What would happen if he lost control, and
we slipped back all the way downhill?"
"It isn't a question of control. It's a question of the strength of the
car. It's powerful enough for worse hills than this."
"What's that funny noise? It didn't sound like that before. Kind of a
clickety-clack. . . . Don't you hear it?"
"No. Of course not. Don't be stupid and imagine things that don't
exist. . . . What's the difference between----"
Jack nobly tried to distract attention from the car, but before another
mile had been traversed, the clickety-clack noise grew too loud to be
ignored, the car drew up with a jerk, and the chauffeur leaped out.
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