Bert walked out of the station with clenched fists and blazing eyes. “It’s Hayward who sent that telegram,” he muttered, between clenched teeth. “I’d stake my soul on it. But I’ll win this race in spite of that crook and his tricks. And anyway,” he thought, with his eyes softening, “old Tom isn’t sick after all, and that’s almost enough to make me forgive Hayward. I feel as though I had just awakened from an awful nightmare.”
It was characteristic of Bert that his anger and chagrin at being tricked in this dastardly way were swallowed up in his relief at finding the report of his friend’s illness false.
Bert consulted his map, and found that by taking a different route than that by which he had come he could save quite some distance, and started out again, after filling the “Blue Streak’s” tanks with oil and gasoline, with the grim resolve to have revenge for the despicable trick that had been played on him, by snatching from Hayward the prize that he was willing to stoop to such depths to gain.
Up hill and down he flew, around curves, over bridges that shook and rattled at the impact of racing man and machine. Steadily the mileage indicator slipped around, as league after league rolled backward, and Bert exulted as he watched it. “We’ll make it ahead of everybody else or die in the attempt, won’t we, old fellow?” he said, apostrophizing the “Blue Streak.” “Nobody’s going to play a trick like that on us and get away with it, are they?”
Only once on the return trip did he stop, and then only long enough to snatch a little food. Then he was off again like the wind, and as dusk began to fall rode into Louisville. As he entered the hotel, after leaving his machine in a garage, Dick and Tom swooped down upon him. “What’s up?” they demanded, both in the same breath, “who sent that telegram, do you know?”
“I think I know,” replied Bert. “I haven’t a doubt in the world that it was sent by Hayward. You remember that we heard he was more or less crooked, and now we know it.”
“I wish I could lay my hands on him,” exclaimed Dick, with flashing eyes. “I’d make him regret the day he was born. Just you wait till the next time I come across him, that’s all.”
“If I see him first there won’t be anything left for you,” said Tom. “Of all the dirty, underhanded tricks I ever heard of, that is the limit.”
“Well, I won’t contradict you,” said Bert, grimly, “but all he’ll ever gain out of it will be a sound thrashing. Don’t you believe for a minute that it’s going to help him win this race. I’ll ride day and night until I’ve made up for this lost time.”
And ride he did, crowding three days’ mileage into two, until at last he felt that he had recovered the time lost in answering the call of the forged telegram.