"Oh, nonsense, don't be a croaker, Dave! It won't rain in a year of Mondays!" cried the senator's son, and then he put on speed once more, and headed the touring-car for Sugar Hill.
The place mentioned was an elevation about a mile back from the lake. It was almost a mountain in size, and the road leading to the top was anything but a good one, being filled with ruts and loose stones. But the engine of the car was powerful, and it was not until they were almost to the top of the hill that Roger had to throw the gears into second speed.
"Some climb and no mistake!" murmured Dave. "Can you make it, Roger?"
"Top or bust!" was the laconic answer.
Scarcely had the senator's son spoken when there came a loud report from the front end of the car.
"A blowout!" gasped Phil.
"The front tire on this side has gone to pieces!" announced Bert. "Will you have to stop?"
"Can't—not here!" announced Roger, grimly. And then he shut his teeth hard and turned on more gasoline. Up and up they bumped, the burst tire cutting deeply into the rough stones. But the power was there, and in less than thirty seconds more the car came to a standstill on the level top of Sugar Hill.
