ouched low over the steering wheel, and using the hood of the car as a
breast-work; though, since he was obliged to look out, his head was
still more or less exposed.

He bated no whit of speed on this account, but raced on; still, that
firing in the dark had an effect upon his nerves, making him feel rather
queer and small, for every now and again at intervals of a few seconds,
it was sure to come, the desperado taking slow, cool aim with the
perseverance of a man plying his day's work, of a man repeating to
himself the motto:

"If at first you don't succeed, try, try, try again."

Those shots, moreover, were coming from a hand whose aim seldom
failed--a dead shot, baffled only by the unconquerable vibration. And
yet Carshaw was untouched. He could not even think. He was conscious
only of the thrum of the car, the spurts of flame, the whistle of lead,
the hysterical frenzy of Winifred's plaints.

The darkness alone saved him, but the more he caught up with the
fugitive the less was this advantage likely to stand him in good stead.
And when he should actually catch them up--what then? This question
presented itself now to his heated mind. He had no plan of action. None
was possible. Even in Bridgeport what could he do? There were two
against one--he would simply be shot as he passed the other car.

It was only the heat of the hunt that had created in him the feeling
that he must overtake them, though he died for it; but when he was
within thirty yards of the front car, and two shots had come dangerously
near in swift succession, a flash of reason warned him, and he
determined to slacken speed a little. He was not given time to do this.
There was an outcry on the car in front from three throats in it.

A mob of oxen, being driven to some market, blocked the road just beyond
a bend. The men in charge had heard the thunder of the oncoming racers,
with its ominous obbligato of screams and shooting. They had striven
desperately to whack the animals to the hedge on either side, and were
bawling loud warnings to those thrice accursed gunmen whom they imagined
chased by police. Their efforts, their yells, were useless. Sixty miles
an hour demands at least sixty yards for safety. When Voles put hand and
foot to the brakes he had hardly a clear space of ten. An obstreperous
bullock was the immediate cause of disaster. Facing the dragon eyes, it
charged valiantly!

Mick the Wolf, running short of cartridges, was about to as