“Hello, Timmy! where are you going?” asked Perkins, in surprise.
“Home,” said Tim proudly, “and I'll tell 'em you're comin'.”
“All right, Timmy, my son!” replied Perkins with a laugh, “tell them you won't need no hot bath; I'm after you.”
“Click-click,” “Click-click-click” was Tim's only answer. It was a distinct challenge, and, while not openly breaking into racing speed, Perkins accepted it.
For some minutes Webster quickened his pace in an attempt to follow the leaders, but soon gave it up and fell back to help Cameron up with his drill, remarking, “I ain't no blamed fool. I ain't going to bust myself for any man. THEY'RE racing, not me.”
“Will Tim win?” enquired Cameron.
“Naw! Not this year! Why, Perkins is the best man in the whole country at turnips. He took the Agricultural Society's prize two years ago.”
“I believe Tim will beat him,” said Cameron confidently, with his eyes upon the two in front.
“Beat nothing!” said Webster. “You just wait a bit, Perkins isn't letting himself out yet.”
In a short time Tim finished his drill some distance ahead, and then, though it was quitting time, without a pause he swung into the next.