Bert Wilson at the Wheel

by J. W. Duffield

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 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 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!

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. “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.”