TIBERIUS SMITH
"‘They'll get used to us in time,' growled Tib, dragging himself out and jumping for the crank.
"‘They have,' I shrieked, as with one accord the intruders leaped forward, permitting us to see they were big, brown men with the bump of benevolence entirely wanting, and that their breakfast-food biceps enabled them to toy with their spears most gracefully.
"‘Good -bye, old man,' I sobbed, mechanically trying to loosen my shot-gun.
"‘Chug-chug,' went the dear old machine, and Tib yelled, 'A11 aboard, you idiot!'
"As he dragged me to the seat and jerked on the animation the head idol hurled a trident that just nicked the tail of the car. I'll swear it was as large as a telegraph pole.
"Then with a recklessness that seemed a sure promise of ruin my old patron yanked the vehicle in and out among the bowlders as deftly as you'd steer the baby's go-cart along the asphalt. And every second I expected to hear the dull protest of a wounded tire.
"‘We'll leave 'em,' I mumbled, in his ear.
"‘Runners!' he choked, swallowing his share of a collection of ashes. 'Trained runners! Beat—horse.'
"I turned, expecting, despite his ipse dixit, to find us drawing wholesomely away from them, but to
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