The Mine of Lost Souls

"That couldn't have been Pinky! Why! Why, the car he had was red," cried
Claire.

"Sure. The idiot's got hold of some barn paint somewhere, and tried to
daub it over. He's trying to make a getaway with it!"

"We'll chase him. In my car."

"Don't you mind?"

"Of course not. I do not give up my objections to the roughing
philosophy, but---- You were right about these shoes---- Oh, don't leave
me behind! Want to go along!"

These sentences she broke, scattered, and totally lost as she scrambled
after him, down the rocks. He halted. His lips trembled. He picked her
up, carried her down, hesitated a second while his face--curiously
foreshortened as she looked up at it from his big arms--twisted with
emotion. He set her down gently, and she climbed into the Gomez.

It seemed to her that he drove rather too carefully, too slowly. He took
curves and corners evenly. His face was as empty of expression, as
unmelodramatic, as that of a jitney driver. Then she looked at the
speedometer. He was making forty-eight miles an hour down hill and forty
to thirty on upgrades.

They were in sight of the fleeing Pinky in two miles. Pinky looked back;
instantly was to be seen pulling his hat low, stooping over--the demon
driver. Milt merely sat more erect, looked more bland and white-browed
and steady.

The bug fled before them on a winding shelf road. It popped up a curve,
then slowed down. "He took it too fast. Poor Pink!" said Milt.