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compelling a more seemly advance upon the wasted towns.

Harley chafed in spirit, and occasionally muttered in his impatience. For him the slower speed had become a sluggish crawl. He longed for wings that he might fly swiftly—to what? To a small heap of black ashes? The ashes would not depart before he arrived, no matter how slow his speed. Could it be that he had hope that Grace and Joan lived?

He laughed aloud, bitterly.

Roy shot him a rapid glance of suspicion.

“Take a grip on yourself, Mr. Harley,” he advised. “You’ve got too much imagination.”

“Can’t we go faster?” asked Harley, ignoring the advice. “We’re simply crawling.”

“We could, but I’m not anxious to land in a hole and wreck the bus. We’ll just take it easy and tail along behind.”

They “tailed along behind” for many miles, studiously following the car ahead, dropping to a lower gear to negotiate the more frequent fractures in the road surface; making small detours to avoid those places where the road had subsided dangerously, and assisting to make new traffic-ruts where it had been pushed out of alignment.

Infreqently they passed cars ditched or disabled, their occupants taking advantage of every passing headlight to effect manoeuvres or repairs. None offered assistance. On this night car-drivers were independent of necessity. If they fell out of the pleasure-seeking procession they expected no sympathy, as they expended none. The show was on, and it was everyone for himself if he would obtain a good view of it. Who knew how long the show would be accessible or free?

“This is where it catches ’em,” Roy remarked, with a self-satisfied smirk, as they passed a number of cars stranded in soft clay beside the uncertain road. “They’re all right while the going is good,