“The cones have been tightened,” he announced. “Why I can feel the friction,” and he moved the front wheel slowly with his hands.
“Try the back wheel!” urged Ned.
Holding that clear of the ground Jerry spun it by placing his foot on the pedal. There was a woeful squeak, and, after a few revolutions that wheel, too, slowed down. Jerry rubbed his finger over the sprocket chain. It came away black from the graphite, but mingled with the blackness were many shining specks.
Just then there came the crack of a revolver.
“That means three minutes to the start,” cried Bob. “What will I do? I can’t fix the wheel in that time!”
“Some one’s put iron filings in the graphite,” announced Jerry, rubbing the stuff between his fingers. “There’s trickery here!”
“And I’ll lose the race!” cried Bob. “I know I have a good chance of winning!”
“Let me get my wheel!” exclaimed Ned.
“It wouldn’t do any good,” interposed Jerry. “We haven’t time to run after them. Besides, the chances are our wheels are doctored too.”
“All ready, boys!” warned the starter. “Minute and a half more before the final gun!”