“I might as well quit,” cried Bob.
“Don’t you do it!” said some one suddenly at his side. “Here, you take my wheel. It’s a racer, and I’ve just oiled it.”
As he spoke a boy, of about thirteen years, who had a slight acquaintance with our three heroes, shoved a handsome new wheel over toward Bob.
“Oh, thank you, Sam Morton,” said Bob. “But don’t you want it yourself?”
“Not a bit,” said Sam. “I’m not going to race. Take the wheel.”
“All right, I will,” assented Bob. “And I’ll square things with you afterward, Sam. Some one has doctored mine. I—”
But Bob did not have time to say any more.
“Half a minute!” warned the starter.
“Get on the track!” cried Jerry.