ver before four o'clock and Brimfield made a wild
rush from the grounds to the town in the endeavour to get the
four-fifteen trolley for Wharton. The team, which was provided with a
coach, and about half the "rooters" succeeded, but the rest, Clint and
Amy among them, arrived too late.

As there was not another car until a quarter to five, they set out to
kill time by viewing the town. Thacher was not a very large place and,
after wandering up one side of the main street and down the other,
looking in all the windows, and leisurely partaking of college-ices at
the principal drug store, there was still ten minutes left to be
disposed of. At the moment of making the discovery they were a block
from the square from which the trolley car trundled away to Wharton, and
they could have covered the distance in something like ten seconds from
a standing start. In spite of this, however, they never got that car!

Gradually they had become separated from the other fellows, and now they
were alone in their grandeur watching the efforts of a youth of about
twenty to start an automobile which stood in front of Thacher's
principal hotel, the Commercial House. They were not especially
interested in the spectacle and really didn't much care whether the
youth ever got going, but there wasn't much else to look at. Every time
the engine started and the youth made a wild dash at the throttle he
reached it too late. Before he could pull it down the chug-chugging died
away. Several minutes passed and Clint viewed the clock in front of a
jewelry store across the street apprehensively. It was seventeen minutes
of five. He tugged Amy's sleeve.

"Come on," he said. "We don't want to miss this one."

"Right-o," replied Amy. "Let's see, though, if he makes it this time."

"Say, one of you fellows pull that throttle down when I get her going,
will you?" asked the automobilist. Amy nodded and put his hand on
the quadrant.

"Now then!" The engine started after several crankings and Amy pulled a
lever. Unfortunately, however, he pulled the wrong one and the engine,
as Amy said, immediately choked to death. The youth observed him more in
sorrow than in anger and drew a sleeve over his perspiring forehead.

"Awfully sorry," said Amy. "I got the wrong handle. Try it again."

The clock showed four-forty-four and Clint saw the car roll around the
corner into the square. "Come on," he begged. "We'll have to beat it,
Amy." Amy nodded, but the youth wa