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 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.