The players who were soon to start out on the links; the guests, the gallery, and the servants gathered to see the finish of the impromptu race, murmurs arising as it was seen how close it was likely to be. And close it was, for when the two machines, with doleful whinings of brakes, came to a stop in front of the house, the front wheels were in such perfect alignment that there was scarcely an inch of difference.
“A dead heat!” exclaimed Bartlett, as he leaped out and motioned for one of the servants to take the car around to the garage.
“Yes, you win!” agreed Captain Poland, as he pushed his goggles back on his cap. He held out a bill.
“What's it for?” asked Bartlett, drawing back.
“Why, I put up a ten spot that I'd beat you. I didn't, and you win.”
“Buy drinks with your money!” laughed Bartlett. “The race was to be for a finish, not a dead heat. We'll try it again, sometime.”
“All right-any time you like!” said the captain crisply, as he sat down at a table after greeting some friends. “But you won't refuse to split a quart with me?”
“No. My throat is as dusty as a vacuum cleaner. Have any of the matches started yet, Bruce?” he asked, turning to the Human Encyclopedia.
“Only some of the novices. And, speaking of novices, do you know that in Scotland there are fourteen thousand, seven hundred—”
“Cut it, Bruce! Cut it!” begged the captain. “Sit in—you and Tom—and we'll make it two bottles. Anything to choke off your flow of useless statistics!” and he laughed good-naturedly.