Picture Play Magazine (Mar-Aug 1916)

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Pickles and Pearls 107 which he had come, and, on a little "rise," he saw a touring car. Leeson was at the wheel of the car, and beside him sat — Harold de Vere ! Charlie could make no mistake in identifying either of the men, for they were in plain view, and coming on at terrific speed. De Vere must have realized how little hope there was in pitting a handcar against an automobile, and winning out. Undoubtedly he had come" down from the railroad, and hailed Leeson as he chased along in pursuit of the roadster. But the whys and wherefores were of small concern to Charlie. His ideas all centered about Boggsville, and he put the roadster in motion and speeded up. For miles, there was a race such as one might hope to read about occasionally, but never to see. During all that wild and fearsome driving, De Vere was waving his arms wildly, and urging Leeson to a faster and faster pace. The touring car was gaining, too, for Leeson was reckless to the last degree, while Charlie had his own safety more or less in mind. Then, as usual, Charlie had one of his. happy thoughts. He put his foot through the roadster's wind shield, and fragments of glass were scattered along the road. He listened as he bent to his work of steering, and, from behind, there came a sharp report. The broken glass had caused a puncture, and the touring car, as Charlie saw by a swift glance behind, almost stood on its searchlights for a moment. De Vere shot one way and Leeson another, while their machine settled down and halted, with its nose against a telegraph pole. Charlie, at this point, struck a section of rough road. He had to hang to the steering wheel, to keep from being thrown out of the roadster. The engine labored. A smell of frying enamel assailed Charlie's nostrils, and smoke floated in clouds from under the hood. It was clear that he was burning up his motor ; but it was equally clear that he dared not stop to let the overheated machinery cool off. Onward he flung, spouting vapor and leaving a trail of it far in his wake. He was close to Boggsville when the expanding metal under the hood choked the pistons, and the tired engine popped and sputtered its last. It died fighting, behaving so valiantly that Charlie regretted having roasted it. Half suffocated by the rolling fog, Charlie toppled from the car, and, with the bagged tiara in one hand, and his cane in the other, crawled to a distance and filled his lungs with fresh, sweet air. . Getting his feet under him, he elevated himself. From the little height on which he stood, he was able to look off toward Boggsville. Between his point of observation and the town lay the pickle works. After all those days of struggle and peril and high achievement, how his heart swelled as his gaze comprehended those loved walls of the factory ! It was as though he stood looking into the dear features of a cherished friend, from whom he had been separated for years, instead of days ! He stretched out his arms toward the gray walls, he kissed his hand to them, and But stay! Why were those automobiles parked at the rear of the shipping room? What meant that crowd near the workroom entrance? As he gazed and wondered, three strokes of a bell rolled faintly toward him from the factory clock. It was three in the afternoon! Three, and the hour of the wedding was at hand ! That bell galvanized Charlie into action. Waving the bag wildly, he galloped toward the factory. '"Wait for me !" he shouted excitedly to the lowering heavens. "This wedding must be called off! Wait for me!"