Chapter I.

If there was one thing Jeff Hasty loathed more than a slow horse, that thing was certainly a slow train.

Jeff was fitted with one of those great big roomy brains which, like an elephant's appetite, requires to be nourished on quantity rather than quality.

With Jeff, a vulgarly large helping of speed was preferable to a generous assortment of scenic splendour.

Chapter II.

Jeff had long since persuaded himself that slow horses were meant to provide sport for fools, while slow trains were intended for the transport of slow horses.

On one occasion, Jeff had posted a letter on a slow train, and six months later, it came back to him from the dead letter office.

As a result of this marathonic experience, Jeff was never able to witness a man purchasing a ticket for the purpose of travelling in a slow train, without becoming involved in a host of morbid speculations as to the man's ultimate destination.

Chapter III.

Jeff's first lesson in real speed was brought about by a remark made by Bill Buddle to the effect that a slow train on the right line would beat a fast motor on the wrong road.

To mention slow trains in the same category as fast motor cars was the one sure way of completely stirring Jeff Hasty's motor-superiority complex into action. It stung his sense of quickness to the quick, as it were.

On the occasion that Bill Buddle had made his remark concerning slow trains and fast motor cars, he had taken the opportunity of further animating the situation by announcing his preference, for a slow train that puffed along as against a fast motor car that petered out.

This, of course, was too much for any selfrespecting speed-merchant, so, to prove that Bill Buddle belonged to the type of gentleman in whose company it is folly to be wise, Jeff Hasty undertook to give the slow train an hour's start and beat it to its destination by another hour.

Chapter IV.

When Jeff started off in his high-powered, low-geared, peak-priced “Tootlebeam,” he was as full of confidence as the tank was empty of motor spirit. Jeff, however, was not long in summing up the petrol position, and as he turned back for the purpose of filling the tank with petrol, he took the opportunity of prefacing page 19 the operation by filling the air with profanity.

So, as the slow train puffed and grunted up the incline, Jeff's “Tootlebeam” purred along the road in good style.

After purring for about five miles, however, the “Tootlebeam” developed “engine trouble.”

“Engine trouble,” it should be explained, is nothing more or less than the result of trying to make a slow car do a fast journey.

One motor in a hundred is built for speed. The other ninety-nine develop “engine trouble” attempting to head it.

It is impossible for one slow train to pass another slow train on a narrow line. Hundreds of motorists die in the attempt to prove that it is possible for one fast motor to pass another fast motor on a narrow road.

Chapter V.

When Jeff Hasty reached his destination, the whole of his confidence had leaked out, and a creepy despairing feeling had leaked in. Staring him in the face was the miserly fact that his one chance of success hinged on the possibility of a slow train having developed “engine trouble.”

As he dawdled along he heard his name shouted from the rear, and, turning round, he found himself staring into the grinning face of Bill Buddle.

“Good heavens!” gasped Jeff, pulling up; “how did you get here, by air?”

“Oh, no,” chuckled Bill, “I came down on the slow train this morning.”

Moral: Travel by train. Fast starts make slow finishes.