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Bert Wilson at the Wheel

<h2>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> <h3>The Race</h3> “Well,” exclaimed Bert, drawing a long breath as he rose from his cramped position beside the “Red Scout,” “this machine is in as good condition as I know how to put it, and if nothing happens I guess we can show you fellows some speed this afternoon.” It was the morning of the long wished-for race and Bert was addressing an excited group of boys, who were holding wrenches, oil cans, and such other appliances as he might need in putting the finishing touches on the pampered machine. The whole camp was in a ferment of excitement and expectancy, and many were the heartfelt wishes for Bert’s success. To these boys it seemed the most important thing on earth that their machine should win, and it is safe to say that if Bert had wanted to remove a piece of black grease from the car and had not a cloth handy, any one of them would have sacrificed his best handkerchief without a moment’s hesitation, and been glad to do it. Fortunately, such a contingency did not arise, however, and finally the last nut had been[207] tightened and the last fine adjustment made, and everything was ready for the start. The race was scheduled to start at two o’clock, but as the boys had to walk to the track, and this necessitated a long detour around the lake, they started almost immediately after breakfast, so as to get there in plenty of time. The boys in the two rival camps were not the only persons interested in the race by any means. News of it had leaked out over the surrounding countryside during the week between the completion of arrangements and the actual race, and now there promised to be a goodly attendance of farmers and their families. Considerable interest was taken in the camp by the kindly country folk, and now the boys were surprised at the number of carriages and farm wagons, full of jolly youngsters, that they met on their march. Every one they met shouted cheery greetings to them, which they returned with interest. It made them very happy to see the interest taken in them by the farmers, and the very evident good will expressed by them. They didn’t take the trouble to figure out the reason for this, but it was not very hard to find. The fact is, the boys were so manly and well-behaved that they won their way into all hearts. Many a time they had seen the boys stop[208] their machine rather than frighten a skittish horse, and more than one weary farmer had been given a lift on his way home from some distant field. So, as has been said, the boys were greeted with expressions of good will on every side as they marched along, and it made them realize, perhaps more than anything else could, that it paid to live a manly, upright life. Meanwhile, back in camp Mr. Hollis, Bert, and Dick, were having a final discussion before leaving for the rival camp in the “Red Scout.” It had been decided that Dick was to ride with Bert in the race, and give him any help that he might need. The other boys had been bitterly disappointed, especially Tom, who had counted right along on going. “It only seems fair that I should go,” he had contended. “Bert and I have always been special pals, and I wanted to share any risk he is going to take.” But Mr. Hollis was firm as a rock, as he well knew how to be when he thought circumstances required it of him. “I’m a little bit uneasy about the race, anyway,” he explained, “and as long as somebody has to take chances I want it to be some boy who is old enough to be responsible for his own[209] actions. I know nobody could fill the place better than you, my boy, but I am sure that when you think over what I have said you will agree with me in my decision,” and Tom had to admit to himself that, as usual, Mr. Hollis was right. But now the time had come to leave for the rival camp, and Mr. Hollis and Tom climbed into the tonneau, while Bert and Dick occupied the two front seats. Soon they had started, and as they went along Bert gave Dick his last instruction. “Remember,” said he, “that when we take the turns you must lean as far toward the inside of the track as you can. This may not seem to help much in keeping those inside wheels on the ground, but every little thing like that does help, and I think that we will have to do everything we know how to beat that ‘Gray Ghost’ of theirs. That car is no slouch, as the saying goes, and Ralph Quinby knows his business.” “All right, Bert,” replied Dick, “I’ll try to remember all the things you have told me. I really believe,” he continued, laughing, “that I have forgotten more about automobiles in the last week than I ever knew before. I never had any idea that there was so much to know about a car, and you certainly have got it down to perfection.” Bert was pleased at this evidently sincere[210] tribute from Dick, and could not prevent a slight flush of pleasure from mounting to his face. “Well, Dick,” he remarked after a moment, “all I’ve got to say is that if such a trio as you and I and the old ‘Red Scout’ can’t win that race, there must be something the matter with the universe, that’s all.” The rival camp all felt as confident as did Mr. Hollis’ troop, however, and to the impartial observer it would certainly have seemed as though there was little to choose between the autos and their crews. By this time they had come in sight of the old race track, and were astonished, and, it must be confessed, somewhat confused at the sight that met their eyes. There was an old rickety grand stand along one side of the course, and this was literally packed with a bright-colored mass of humanity. Even scattered around the infield there were quite a few farm wagons, with their complement of folks out for a holiday. “Say,” said Dick to Bert in a low tone, “I didn’t count on having an audience like this. They’ll guy the life out of us if we lose.” “Well,” said Bert, who by this time had recovered from his first astonishment, “that’s all the more reason why we should win. We simply can’t let ourselves be beaten now, that’s all there is about it.” [211] But there was no time for further speculation, as Mr. Hollis was seen approaching them, and it was evident the race must soon begin. Bert ran the “Red Scout” around to a small shed in back of the grandstand, and he and Dick made their final preparations. These consisted in taking off the hood, or bonnet, altogether, and removing the exhaust pipes from the motor. As Bert had already explained to Dick, this was done to eliminate any back pressure from the exhaust gases. Under ordinary conditions, this makes such a small difference in the power of a car that it can hardly be said to count, but in a race every ounce of power is required. This is done on every racing car, and that is why the explosions make such loud, sharp reports when the car is in action. It need hardly be said that every boy in Mr. Hollis’s troop, except poor Fred, was present, and many were the anxious looks cast at Bert and Dick to see, if possible, how they felt about the outcome of the race. Both had been trained to have control of their feelings, however, and so outwardly they appeared to be very calm. This was far from being the real state of their feelings, and both felt as though their hearts had suddenly become too large and were trying to get out between their ribs. They realized that it was not only their own reputation that would[212] suffer if they were defeated, but the whole camp was involved. What would Mr. Hollis think of them if the other boys were victorious? What would the boys who had such blind confidence in them and the “Red Scout” do or say if the “Gray Ghost” won? Such thoughts were demoralizing, however, and neither Bert nor Dick entertained them any longer than they could help. Into both their faces came that stern, resolved look that all the boys had seen at times and come to love, and in the minds of Tom and the others all doubts as to the final result vanished. Meanwhile, Mr. Thompson’s troop had been giving the “Gray Ghost” its final touches, and now, at the sound of a mellow whistle, both Bert and Ralph cranked their motors. None of the boys had ever heard the unmuffled exhaust of a racing car before, and at the savage roar that now issued from both cars all the boys fell back several steps with scared faces. As soon as they realized that the gasoline tank had not exploded, nor any other equally awful thing occurred, they came forward and tried to ask questions, but in the confined shed they could hardly hear the sound of their own voices. Slowly the fire-spitting monsters were backed out of the shed, and their respective drivers swung them around and on to the track. They[213] were greeted by a wave of cheering both from the boys and from the assembled farmers, and more than one burly countryman who had come to the “kids’ racket” under protest was seen to sit up straight and open his eyes wide. No doubt many of them had expected to see a rather tame affair, and in fact few of them had ever seen an automobile race, or knew the tremendous speed of which a good car was capable, or realized the cool head and steady nerves required to control the condensed power of forty horses traveling at a speed of close to a mile a minute. However, they were soon to experience a few of the thrills attendant on such an occasion. The two leaders had been holding a consultation, and now they approached the vibrating, eager cars. Mr. Hollis was forced to shout to make himself heard above the din of the exhausts. “It is understood,” he said, “that this race is to be run from a standing start, and is to be for a distance of ten miles, or ten laps around the track. The cars must line up on the tape that we have stretched in front of the grandstand, and at the report of my pistol they are to start, each driver getting away as best he can. We have drawn lots for the choice of position, and the ‘Gray Ghost’ won, and is to have the inside position.[214] Mr. Thompson and I will act as judges. Is that perfectly clear?” to Bert and Ralph. “Yes, sir,” they both responded, and proceeded to manœuvre their cars into the appointed positions. Mr. Hollis and Mr. Thompson took their places in the grandstand, part of which the boys had been directed to reserve for them. By this time the cars were in position, each one with its front wheels resting on the strip of white tape. The “Gray Ghost” had a decided advantage to start with, as it is evident that in any race the car that has the inside position, that is, the part of the track nearest to the center of the field, has a slightly lesser distance to travel than the car on the outside, and in a close race every few feet count. But now there was a breathless hush over the grandstand, and all eyes were on Mr. Hollis’s hand, holding the pistol aloft. Bert and Ralph were bent over their levers, every muscle tense, and nerves stretched to the breaking point. Crack! went the pistol. With a mighty roar, and the blue flames spitting from the exhaust ports, the two great machines bounded forward, and almost with one movement Bert changed the gears from first to second, from second to high. At every change the willing car leaped ahead with ever-increasing momentum, and Bert felt a[215] wild thrill run through his body as he realized the vast force beneath him, subject only to his control. The “Gray Ghost” had made almost as good a start, however, and now, although the “Red Scout” had a slight lead, the inside position began to tell, and the “Gray Ghost” gained a trifle. Dick, who had been looking back over his shoulder, now turned to Bert and yelled excitedly in his ear, “Sock it to her, Bert! Give her the gas! They’re gaining on us!” They had now covered the first lap, and the speedometer hand on the “Red Scout’s” dashboard registered a speed of fifty miles an hour. Bert knew he could do better than that, but remembered Mr. Hollis’s instructions not to take any unnecessary chances. The machine was working beautifully, and a wave of pride surged over him as he thought that this was largely due to the care and work he had bestowed upon it. But now the “Gray Ghost” was ranging alongside—ahead— “Give her a pump full of oil, Dick,” yelled Bert to his friend, and opened the throttle a trifle wider. The machine answered like a thing of life. The wind whistled in their ears, the track seemed a mere gray blur racing away behind them, and[216] the mighty speed song of the ravening motor was like music in their ears. Faster and faster they flew, the two cars keeping pace side by side, and the speedometer hand creeping up—up. Fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-six! it registered, and the flying cars seemed barely to touch the ground. On the straight stretch in front of the grandstand they gathered such speed that at the turns the rear wheels skidded, throwing up showers of dirt, and the drivers were forced to slow down a little or the machines would surely have collided. Up to that time neither car had a decided advantage, but now they had covered the eighth lap, and both crews realized that the time had arrived to call on the racing engines for their final and greatest effort. The crowds in the stands were yelling like maniacs, as each car in turn pushed its nose ahead of the other. But Bert and Dick heard nothing but the terrific roar of the racing cars. Their pulses beat like trip-hammers; their eyes were starting from their heads. They felt rather than saw that the “Gray Ghost” was gaining—gaining only a little, inch by inch, but gaining. Now it had come abreast; now it was slowly but surely forging ahead. It looked as though the “Red Scout” had “shot its bolt,” and its partisans[217] in the grandstand groaned in an agony of apprehension that was fast becoming despair, while their rivals danced up and down and shrieked encouragement to their gray champion. Now they were on the last lap, and suddenly Bert leaned forward and advanced his spark to the limit. It was do or die. His heart exulted as he felt the splendid car leap forward. He took a firmer grip on the wheel and threw the throttle wide open. His mysterious “sixth sense” had told him that he had something in reserve, and now the “Red Scout” justified his judgment. It leaped, it flew. It collared the “Ghost” just as they turned into the stretch, and tore down the course, the explosions of its motor blending together in one deafening volley of defiance as it drew away from its rival. Across the line it flew like a rocket, the pistol cracked, and—the race was won! <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/image04.jpg" width-obs="382" height-obs="600" alt="Across the line it flew like a rocket." title="Across the line it flew like a rocket." /> Across the line it flew like a rocket.—(See page 217)</div> Both cars made another circuit of the track before they were able to stop, and then drew up in front of the grandstand. Immediately the crowd surged down, and in a moment the two contestants were surrounded by a frenzied mob of shouting and hat-throwing boys, and almost equally excited, if less demonstrative, country people. Mr. Hollis pressed forward and grasped the hands of Bert and Dick, one in each of his.[218] “You did nobly, boys,” he exclaimed, but there was a catch in his voice, and his face looked gray and drawn, “you did great work, but I would not consent to your racing again for all the money in the world. It is altogether too dangerous.” But by this time the defeated boys belonging to Mr. Thompson’s troop had recovered a little from their chagrin, and now elbowed their way through the crowd, headed by their leader and Ralph Quinby. Like the clean-cut and manly fellow that he was, Ralph walked up and shook hands with Bert and Dick in turn. “Well,” he said, “you fellows certainly put up a great race, and we have nothing more to say. It was simply a case of the best car winning, that’s all.” Bert appreciated his manly spirit, and replied, “It was simply a matter of the ‘Red Scout’ having a little more speed. If we exchanged cars, you would win and we would lose. You gave us a hard tussle up to the last second.” All the other boys showed the same feeling as had Ralph, and both parties separated with mutual expressions of esteem and good will. All the members of Mr. Hollis’s troop that could do so crowded into the “Red Scout,” and various good-natured farmers volunteered to[219] make room in their capacious wagons and take the rest home. Room was even found for Don, who had been an excited spectator of the race and was now regarded by the jubilant boys as their mascot. “It’s little enough to do at that,” remarked one husky agriculturist. “I’d be willing to cart the whole outfit over and back a dozen times for the sake of seeing another race like that. I wish old Dobbin could hike along like them things.” And in this he expressed the general sentiment of the crowd. As they traveled campward through the cool twilight the boys shouted and sang, and in a thousand other noisy but harmless ways found a vent for their overflowing enthusiasm. Bert and Dick were the heroes of the day, as they well deserved to be. The race was run again at least a hundred times, and by the time they struck camp they had quieted down to some extent. Their beloved car had, of course, reached camp ahead of them, and now, as they alighted and caught sight of Bert and Dick, their enthusiasm flamed up again, and cheer after cheer resounded through the silent woods. At last they cooled down sufficiently to go to bed, but it was a long time before they finally got to sleep. Bert and Dick shook hands before parting to go to their different tents. For a few[220] seconds they looked into each other’s eyes, and the grip of their hands tightened before they finally separated and said good night. For when two good comrades meet danger face to face and win out, a new and never-to-be-forgotten bond is riveted between them that lasts through life. <hr class="tb" /> It was a wildly hilarious group of campers who sat down to a piping hot breakfast the next morning. Some, indeed, had hardly slept at all, so great was their rejoicing at the “Red Scout’s” glorious victory. They had won and the much-vaunted “Gray Ghost” had had to “take their dust.” What if it were their last day in camp? As Jim, who was famous for mixing his figures of speech, said, “The camp, anyway, was breaking up in a blaze of glory.” Every exciting detail of the great struggle was rehearsed and enlarged upon, times without number. They crowded round the splendid car and praised it and patted it as though it were alive and could understand how proud they were of its victory. And Bert! If he had been anything but the fine, manly fellow he was, he would have been utterly spoiled by the plaudits heaped upon him. He had been their hero before; now he was their idol. His skill, his judgment, his nerve, were dwelt upon to the exclusion of everything else;[221] but he modestly disclaimed any credit and put it all up to the car. “This is the fellow that did it all,” he said, patting the great machine affectionately. “Yes,” quoted Dick, <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> “‘This is the steed that saved the day, By carrying Sheridan into the fight From Winchester, twenty miles away,’ </div> </div> but all the same,” he went on, “the steed saved the day because Sheridan was on his back, and the ‘Red Scout’ saved the day because Bert Wilson was at the wheel.” And to this the whole camp gave a thundering chorus of assent. And Bert was at the wheel that afternoon, when, after “three times three” given for the “Red Scout” and its driver, the noble car stood panting, crowded to the guards with as many as could tumble in, ready to lead the way to the station where they were to take the train to the city. “I tell you, Tom,” he said, as he grasped the wheel and the great car sprang forward, “I never expect to have so much pleasure and excitement in my life as I have had this summer.” But Bert was mistaken. A broader field and greater triumphs lay before him—exploits that[222] would tax every ounce of brain and muscle; victory snatched from defeat amid the applause of excited thousands. How he met the test and won his fight will be told in the next volume, “Bert Wilson’s Fadeaway Ball.” THE END <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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