Peter laid prideful, loving
hands on his machinery; for the first time with legitimate racing excuse,
as he long had wished to, he tried out his engine. Mickey could see the
faces of the protesting passengers and the conductor grinning in the door,
but Peter could not have heard if he had tried to tell him. Flying it was,
smooth and even, past fields, orchards, and houses; past people who cried
out at them and shook their fists. Mickey looked at Peter and registered
for life each line of his big frame and lineament of his face, as he
gripped the gear and put his car over the highway. When they reached the
pavement, Mickey touched Peter's arm. "Won't make anything by getting
arrested," he cautioned.
"No police for blocks yet," said Peter.
"Well there's risk of life and damage suit at each crossing!" shouted
Mickey, so Peter slowed a degree; but he was miles ahead of all
regulations as he stopped before the gleaming entrance. Mickey sprang from
the car and hurried up the steps. Mrs. Minturn arose from a seat and came
to meet him.
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