the head of the raiding column. The lane and the road were convergent. And now he noticed that the leading lights were stringing out. He was discovered; the purr of his motor and the gleam of his lamp had been noted, and they were sprinting to head him off. Open went his muffler, and, head down, he, the modern Paul Revere, swept into the main road, just one hundred yards ahead of the leading troops. With brake hard down and machine skidding over to the further ditch, fortune favored his desperate dash, and he straightened out for Washington.
Behind, he heard the clash of falling bicycles. "Ah! they have jumped from their machines to take a long shot"—and above the roar of his motor he heard the crackle of rifle fire. Zip, zip, zip, the bullets sang. "I am going a good mile a minute now—they'll never get me—Oh, H!" Like a blow from a baseball bat it struck him—
