“For this, eh?”
“What else? About a week ago the makers of that little beauty, which they call the Baby Racer, wrote to me asking if they could get a try out on the course here. They are stunting mostly for amateur patronage, and want to make a catchy showing. I fixed things with the show committee four days ago. The people who own the machine pay me one hundred dollars for my trouble. Half of it is yours.”
“Fifty dollars!” said Dave in a rapturous kind of a tone.
“It was hard work getting an extra number on the programme, but Mr. King has fixed that.”
“It’s to be a regular entry, then?” asked Dave.
“Yes, it is, and a silver cup trophy for the best exhibition. Three other new machines are in the contest.”
“But,” demurred Dave modestly, “you can’t expect me, a mere beginner—”
“To win the trophy?” retorted Grimshaw, in one of his roaring moods. “I certainly do. Why, are you thinking of disgracing all my careful training, by making a fizzle of the chance of a lifetime!”
Dave was nearly overcome. He distrusted neither his own nerve nor the excellent training of his tutor, but the proposition was so sudden it almost took his breath away.
“See here, Dashaway,” broke in the old man, “you’ve done just what I told you in all our training stunts, haven’t you?”