"Oh, I hope we'll get there in time," Amy murmured over and over again,
and kept looking at the pathetic little victim. "Is she still breathing,
Betty? Are you sure?"
To this Betty always nodded in the affirmative, her little mouth grimly
set, her eyes fixed steadily ahead, as though she would draw their
destination nearer to them by the very force of her desire.
"I wonder," Mollie flung back at them from between clenched teeth, "what
that motorcyclist looked like. I'd like to meet him again--with a firing
squad."
"Why I saw him," came Grace's muffled voice from the floor of the car.
"So did I," added Amy.
"So you would recognize him again?" Mollie demanded eagerly, swerving the
car perilously near the edge of the road.
"Are you sure?" added Betty, taking her eyes from the far horizon and
regarding Grace intently.
Both girls nodded vigorously.
"His head was down, of course," Amy continued, "but I'd know his face in a
minute if I saw it again. Eyes close together, long nose--"
"And a little mustache," Grace finished eagerly. "The kind Percy Falconer
used to wear and we girls called an eyebrow on his lip."
"He must have been a thing of beauty," commented Mollie.
"He had the meanest kind of face," said Amy, with a little shudder. "The
kind you wouldn't like to meet on a dark night."
"I should have judged as much from your description," said Betty dryly.
"There's one good thing about him--we ought to be able to recognize him
easily.
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