The Motor Boys Overland; Or, A Long Trip for Fun and Fortune — Themes and Context

There was a whizz of rubber-tired wheels, a cloud of dust and the frightened yelping of a dog as a big, red touring automobile shot down the road.

"You nearly ran over him, Chunky!" exclaimed Jerry Hopkins, to the stout youth at his side.

"That's what you did, Bob Baker!" chimed in Ned Slade, leaning over from the rear seat of the auto. "I thought you said you were an expert."

"I didn't come within five feet of the pup," answered Bob Baker, giving the steering wheel a twist to avoid a chicken that scooted across the country road.

"Never mind--miss as good as a mile--we certainly are skating along--never say die--hit a dog, biff! bang! up in the air--down again--bust a tire--break your leg--kill the animal--off again--whoop!"

"Say, Andy Rush, if you're going to talk as fast as that the first time Chunky speeds the machine, I'm going to get out!" cried Jerry, with a laugh. "There's excitement enough without you making any more."

"All right, fellows, I'll keep quiet," agreed Andy, who was a small, nervous chap, never still for a moment, and so full of energy that he talked, as Jerry sometimes said, "like a house afire."

Bob leaned forward and pulled one of the levers. The auto slowed down, as the low-speed gear came into play, and bowled along under a stretch of shady trees.

"Fifteen miles in thirty minutes," remarked the stout lad, pulling out his watch. "Not so bad for a starter, eh, Ned?"

"The machine certainly can go!" observed Jerry.

"I didn't have the full-speed lever on, either," remarked Bob, who was called "Chunky" by his companions, because of his fleshiness. He turned off the gasolene as the auto came under a large chestnut tree, and the four boys stretched out comfortably on the leather-upholstered seats.

There was Bob Baker, a lad of fifteen years, son of Andrew Baker, a rich banker; Ned Slade, sixteen years old, the only son of Aaron Slade, a department store proprietor, and Jerry Hopkins, the son of a widow, Mrs. Julia Hopkins.

These three were faithful chums, seldom apart. With them was a mutual friend, Andy Rush. All the boys lived in the village of Cresville, not far from Boston.

The three first named had, the week before the story opens, come into possession of a fine touring car, which they had won as the first prize of a motor-cycle meet, given by the Cresville Athletic Club, as related in the first volume of this series, entitled "The Motor Boys."

In that was told how they had incurred the enmity of Noddy Nixon, a town bully, who had robbed the mill of Amos Judson of one thousand dollars, which crime the Motor Boys were instrumental in fastening on Noddy.

In consequence of the pending disclosure of his guilt, Noddy had fled from town, a short time before the races, in his father's automobile. Bill Berry, a town ne'er-do-well, accompanied him. Not long after Noddy had fled in the terror of his guilt being found out, he sent back a letter threatening vengeance on the three boys, whom he accused as being responsible for the fact that he had to leave home.

But the Motor Boys, as they now called themselves, cared little for this in view of the pleasures they anticipated when they got the automobile. It had come in due time; a fine affair, with all the latest improvements and attachments, and was a car capable of making a trip almost anywhere.

The company from whom the auto was purchased sent an expert out to Cresville with it, to instruct the boys in the running of the machine. They learned readily, and were soon able to make short trips on the country roads surrounding the village. This was the first time they had made an extended trip, and the drawing of lots had given Bob the chance to drive the auto, with the result that he nearly came to grief when the dog unexpectedly ran across the road.

For about half an hour the three chums and Andy rested in the shade. It was a pleasant fall afternoon, and though the sun was warm there was a cool breeze.

"Whose turn to crank her up?" asked Bob, for, of course, it could not be expected of him, in charge of the steering wheel, to start the engine.

"I guess it's mine," came from Ned, with a sort of groan. His arm still ached from the previous turning of the flywheel.

"I'll do it--lots of fun--first time I ever had a chance--let me--good for my muscle--whoop!" exclaimed Andy, bustling from the car.

"Oh, it's good for your muscle, all right enough," observed Ned. "Go on, I'll not stop you."