Bert Wilson at the Wheel

by J. W. Duffield

While there was no bitterness in the rivalry between the two camps, yet their desire to win was extremely keen.

“You have simply got to get there, old fellow,” said Dick as he and Bert were tinkering at the machine on the morning before that set for the outing. “It would never do to have those fellows say that the ‘Red Scout’ had to take the dust of the ‘Gray Ghost.’”

“Well,” said Bert, who, as the driver of the car, naturally felt a greater weight of responsibility than anybody else, “there are just three things we need in order to come in first. Above everything else, we’ve got to have the car in splendid condition. It must be stripped of every single thing that might furnish wind resistance and make its work that much harder. Every bolt and nut must be examined and tightened. The lever, the clutch, the gear, has to be thoroughly examined. Many a race is won in advance in this way, even before the machine leaves the post. In the next place, we’ve got to have good judgment. By this I mean judgment of pace. It isn’t only what the speedometer says, but there is a little something that tells the man who has his hand on the wheel just when and just how hard he should hit it up. Sometimes it is wise to trail the other fellow. At other times it may be well to set the pace, but the ability to do either one or the other is the thing that, other things being equal, is bound to tell in the long run. Then, greatest of all, perhaps, is nerve. I don’t know whether you have ever ridden, Dick, in a machine that goes a mile a minute, but if you have, especially on a circular track, you’ll know something of what I mean. A fellow’s nerves must be like iron. The least hesitation, the least doubt, the least shakiness even for the merest fraction of a second, may be fatal. This is true even if one were riding without anything especially at stake, but when we know that all the fellows will be yelling like Indians, begging us to win, and know the bitter disappointment that will come to them if the other fellow shows us the way over the line, I tell you it is a sure enough test of a fellow’s nerve.”

“Well,” said Dick, “as to that last point I haven’t any doubt about you having plenty of nerve, Bert. If that were the only thing in question I would call the race won just now, but how about the machines themselves? Don’t they enter into the calculation?”

“Of course,” said Bert, “that counts for an awful lot. You can’t make a cart horse beat a thoroughbred, no matter how well he is ridden. There’s got to be the speed there or everything else counts for nothing. But take two machines of about equal power, and from all I hear the ‘Red Scout’ hasn’t much, if anything, on the ‘Gray Ghost’ in this particular, it puts the matter right up to the drivers of the cars. Under those conditions, nine times out of ten, it’s the best man and not the best machine that wins.”

While Tom and Bert discussed the thing in this way soberly, the rest of the troop hadn’t a doubt in the world that their hero would win. They idolized Bert. They had seen him under a variety of circumstances and never once had he shown the white feather. Never once had he failed to measure up to an emergency. Never once had he failed to use every ounce of energy and power that he possessed. If he should lose—and this thought was instantly dismissed as traitorous—they knew that, although beaten, he would not be disgraced, and so, with a vast amount of excitement but with scarcely the slightest feeling of trepidation, they awaited the momentous day when the “Gray Ghost” and the “Red Scout” should battle for supremacy.

“Orphans’ Day” dawned clear and beautiful. There was just enough breeze to temper the heat of the sun. The skies were cloudless. Many a tousled little head up at the asylum had tossed restlessly on its pillow through that night and almost all of the expectant youngsters needed no rising bell to call them from their dreams. Even breakfast was dispatched more quickly than usual, and the feverish impatience of the little tots made it almost impossible to wait for the coming of that glorious automobile.

As it was necessary to save all possible space in the auto for the children themselves, Bert drove the car over alone. When he came in sight he was hailed with a yell of delight by a little group of seven or eight gathered on the lawn, who had been told off, to the envy of their less fortunate companions, for the first ride. The matron in charge made a pretense of keeping order, but she had been a child herself and the attempt was only half-hearted. In they piled, one after the other, tumbling over the sides, or tossed in by the strong arms of Bert, and untangled themselves somehow, some on the seats, some on the bottom of the car between the last and the driver’s seat. Brown heads, black heads, blond heads, yes, even one little red head—that of Teddy Mulligan—made what Shorty said when he saw it was “a sure enough color scheme.”

As soon as they were safely ensconced, Bert blew his horn, swung the car around, and then made off for the camp. Oh, the delight of that swift trip on that glorious morning. Oh, the chatter that rose from those eager lips. Oh, the joy that bubbled in those little, motherless hearts. It wasn’t earth—it was heaven. On sped the machine, noiselessly, softly, swiftly as a bird. If it had not been for the other groups who were eagerly waiting their turn Bert would surely have turned off into a side road and given the kids a good many extra miles; but the others had to be considered, too, and time was passing, so into the camp they glided, all alive with eagerness, delight and anticipation. The ready hands of the other boys lifted the little ones from the machine, which instantly turned about for its second trip. Again and again this was repeated, until the last little group on the lawn of the asylum had melted away, and the woods resounded with their childish prattle.

The boys had surely spread themselves to give “the kids” a day that they’d never forget. Frank took some of the larger boys to the little glade where the archery practice was on, put the bows and arrows into their hands that had been prepared and showed them how to shoot. The girls were taken to a swing that the boys had rigged up and swung to and fro to their hearts’ content. Tom showed them how to make jack-o’-lanterns and told them about the time when Bert had put one up in a great cave and frightened him so badly when he caught a first glimpse of it. A little group under the guidance of Dick went down to the brook and watched the sunfish dart to and fro under the gleaming surface and the great perch and catfish lying lazily under the reeds that fringed the bank. Shorty, who was an expert fisherman, threw his line while the boys looked on with bated breath, and in a few minutes pulled up a plump catfish.