“He’s one of my crack graduates, I’d have you know,” retorted Grimshaw, bridling up.
“That don’t make him eligible.”
“Eligible for what?”
“Running a machine on a licensed course.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. King, stepping up, “but we have arranged all that. Here, Dashaway, keep that about you so you can answer any impudent questions.”
“A pilot’s license, eh?” muttered the fault-finder—“Oh, then of course it’s all right.”
“It’s not a pilot’s license,” Grimshaw told Dave after the fellow had sneaked away, “but it’s just as good as one. It’s a special permit, and Mr. King’s word and influence stand good for you.”
Dave passed three anxious but busy hours up to the time when the extra feature advertised was announced, and Grimshaw and two assistants wheeled the Baby Racer out upon the running course.
“Hop in,” ordered Grimshaw, as the spotless new model was ranged in the row ready for the start.
“There’s the signal,” spoke his assistant.