As Bert crept grimly up, nearer and nearer, the place became a veritable Bedlam. Now the racers had entered the last lap; only a third of a mile to go, and Bert was still a length behind. The exhaust of the racing motorcycles united in one hoarse, bellowing roar, that seemed to shake the very earth.
Then—Bert reached down, and with the finish line but a short hundred yards ahead, opened wide the air shutter on the carburetor. His machine seemed to almost leave the track, and then, tearing forward, passed the Frenchman, who was leading. As he crossed the finish line, Bert was ahead by the length of a wheel!
The uproar that burst forth then defied all description. As Bert, after making a circuit of the track, finally brought the “Blue Streak” to a standstill, a seething mob rushed toward him, waving hats and flags, and shouting frantically and joyfully.
Bert had no mind to get in their well-meaning clutches, however, so he and his two friends made a rush for his dressing room, and reached it safely. The crowd, being unable to locate its hero, and too excited to make a methodical search for him, worked off its exuberance by much shouting and shaking of hands between perfect strangers, and gradually dispersed.
Meanwhile Tom and Dick, with strong emotion that they made no effort to conceal, wrung his hand again and again.
“You rode the greatest motorcycle race this old world ever saw, old friend,” said Dick at last, “but Tom and I are never going to let you go in another. The world would be too empty for us without you.”
In the sheaf of telegrams of congratulations handed to Bert next morning was one from Reddy. It was characteristic:
“Shamrock. Glory be. I knew you’d put it over. Keep in good shape for football.”
“He talks as if I were already on the team,” commented Bert; “I may not make it, after all.”