through. But I feel—rather—queer.”

In an instant Dick and Bert yanked off Tom’s coat and rolled up his shirt sleeve. Their hearts almost stopped beating. There, just below the elbow were two tiny punctures, fiery red against the white skin.

Like a flash Dick’s lips were on the wound as he strove to draw out the venom. Bert whipped out his handkerchief and tied it tightly just above those ominous spots. Then he thrust a stick through the folds and twisted it until Tom grew white with the pain.

Drawing his whistle from his pocket, Bert blew loud and shrill a series of short and long notes in the Morse alphabet that told of deadly need and peril. He knew that if it reached the ears of Mr. Hollis it would bring him instantly.

And now for a doctor. But where? He cast wildly about him and his heart sank as he realized that there was none nearer than the county town fourteen miles away. Fourteen long miles over a rough forest road. There was no telephone or telegraph in that wilderness. The only horse on the place was a sedate old brute who couldn’t be flogged into a gallop. There was one thing to do and only one. He leaped to his feet.

At that moment an answering whistle came over the hill, telling him that Mr. Hollis had heard and was coming.

“I’m off,” Bert cried to Dick. “Keep a stiff upper lip, old man,” as he clapped Tom on the shoulder. Another moment and the woods closed round him.

Those giant trees, centuries old, had seen some strange sights in their time. Perhaps in the old days some Indian brave in pursuit of his quarry or himself pressed hard by enemies had passed beneath them like the flight of an arrow. But it is doubtful if they had ever seen a white man running at such speed as Bert’s, as like a young Mercury with winged heels he rushed along under their branches. Life was at stake—Tom’s life, he reflected as a pang tore through him—and he must run as he had never run before if he were to come out winner.

The road itself was a fearful handicap. It was little more than a woodcutter’s path, ridged by deep furrows, dotted here and there with stumps, strewn with branches blown down in storms. Even where it was comparatively clear, the pine needles that carpeted it in spots offered a slippery and treacherous footing. Low-hanging branches brushed his face, long creepers reached out to grasp his flying feet. If he should once slip or trip or sprain an ankle—. He shuddered and ran on.

He had started off at a terrific pace and had covered three miles or more at top speed. Then the strain began to tell. His lungs were laboring and his breath came in gasps that were almost sobs. He took a grip on himself. At this rate he would collapse before he had gone five miles. He must husband his strength or he would never reach the end of his journey. And then——.

At the thought he slackened speed and fell into the long steady lope that yet covered the ground at an amazing rate. His breathing became easier and he knew that he would soon get his second wind. Then he felt that he could run all day.

Now he had made half the distance and from the crown of a hill he caught sight of the far-off spire of a church that marked the location of the town. It put new speed into his feet and life into his veins. He would win through. He must win through. Yet through his self assurance came at times the terrible thought—suppose that after all he should be too late.

A fierce rage against the whole snake family took possession of him. Again he heard the blood-curdling rattle; again he saw the malicious eyes in which a devil lurked, the ugly triangular head, the long slimy diamond-marked body that turned him sick with loathing. He could have wished that all the venomous tribe had been compressed in one, that he might kill it with a single blow.

But he shook off this feeling. Hate weakened him—taxed too heavily his vital forces. He must concentrate on just one thing—Tom and the terrible need for haste.

Now he was running easily. His wind was in good condition. His legs had taken on new strength. The only danger left was the path. If he could avoid injury that would cripple him, he knew he could win. He had shed hat and coat and vest, had even thrown away his knife and whistle to lighten himself by every ounce for the final sprint. A mountain brook lay in his path. He stooped, dashed the water over his head and ran on.

At last the woods became less dense. Scattered clearings here and there told him he was reaching the outskirts of the town. He passed a farmhouse, then another. He caught a glimpse of people at doors and windows staring at him as though at an apparition. A team drew hastily aside to let him pass. A straggling line of houses marked the entrance to the town. Just as he reached the main street, he caught sight of a doctor’s sign, and dashing upon the porch hammered at the door.

The woman who opened it started back at the sight of him. He was dripping with sweat, his face was haggard and drawn, his eyes burning with excitement.

“The doctor,” he gasped.

“Here he is,” said a tall, keen-faced man, appearing at this moment. “What is it?”

Between gasps Bert made known his errand. The doctor’s face grew grave.

“Sit down,” he said, “and I’ll harness up and be with you in a minute.” And he hurriedly left the room.

But Bert was thinking quickly. Over that rough road and largely uphill, even a good horse—and the doctor’s nag was not likely to be a thoroughbred—would find it hard to negotiate the distance within two hours. And what might happen to Tom in that time he did not dare to think. What could he do? And then like a flash came the solution. The Red Scout! She could make it in twenty minutes.

Without a word he rushed out of the house and across to the combination livery and garage where the machine was stored. There it stood, the most conspicuous object in the place, with all trace of its journey removed and its cylinders shining. It was the work of a moment to explain matters to the proprietor and see that there was plenty of gasoline in the tank. He sprang to the driver’s seat, threw in the clutch and glided swiftly out to the road. So that when the doctor drove around the side of the house he was astonished to see the great car come swooping down upon him.

“All ready, doctor,” shouted the wild-eyed youth at the wheel, “come along.”

“You’ll never make it,” he protested, “on this road. You’ll split it apart. You’ll tear it to pieces.”

“We will make it,” cried Bert. “We must make it. Jump in.”

For a moment the doctor hesitated. He knew—none better—the need of haste. Still his own life was precious. Then he rose to the occasion. His sporting blood was roused. He would take a chance. He swung his case into the tonneau and leaped in after it. “Let her go,” he called.

And Bert let her go!

The doctor saw some “demon driving” that day. The great machine sprang forward like an arrow released from the string. The cheer that rose from the little knot of townspeople who had hastily collected was lost in the roar of the exhaust. The town itself melted away like a dream. The wind whistled past them with a shriek. In a moment they had passed the straggling farmhouses and entered on the road that led upwards through the woods.

Crouched low over the wheel to offer as little resistance as possible to the wind, Bert kept his eye glued on the path ahead. To strike a tree meant death. Collision with a stump would be wreck and disaster. The car lunged from side to side and the doctor, down on the floor of the