He was standing dismayed, a slim, perturbed young fellow in khaki, with a grip in one hand and a canvas gun case in the other, when some one touched him on the arm.

He needed the second glance to tell him it was Cliff, and even then it was the smooth, bored voice that convinced him.

Cliff wore a motor coat that covered him from chin to heels, a leather cap pulled down over his ears, and driving goggles as concealing as a mask.
He led the way to a touring car that looked like any other touring car--except to a man who could know the meaning of that high, long, ventilated hood and the heavy axles and wheels, and the general air of power and endurance, that marked it a thoroughbred among cars.

The tonneau, Johnny saw as he climbed in, was packed tight with what looked like a camp outfit.

His own baggage was crowded in somehow, and the side curtains, buttoned down tight, hid the load from passers-by.
Cliff pulled his coat close around his legs, climbed in, set his heel on the starter.
A pulsing beat, smooth, hushed, and powerful, answered.