Meanwhile Jack North had found that he could not overtake his rival. He was not a fleet runner, while the other had gotten a start of him, which he could not hope to make up.
But he was too fertile in his resources to despair. In fact he was never known to give up a contest which he had once fairly entered. This persistence in whatever he undertook was the secret of Jack North’s wonderful success amid environments which must have discouraged less courageous hearts.
Still it looked to his enemy, as the latter glanced back to see him leisurely turn into a side street leading away from their destination, that he had nothing further to fear from him.
“Thought you would be glad to give in,” cried out the delighted seeker of the situation at the engine shops, and believing that he had nothing further to fear, the awkward youth slackened his gait to a walk.
Though Jack turned into the alley at a moderate pace, as soon as he had gone a short distance, he started again into a smart run.
“I shall have farther to go,” he thought, “but Fret Offut will think I have given up, and thus he will let me get in ahead of him.”
This seemed the truth, when, at last, Jack came in sight of the low-walled and scattering buildings belonging to John Fowler & Co., engine builders.
Fret Offut was nowhere in sight, as Jack entered the dark, dingy office at the lower end of the buildings.
A small sized man, with mutton chop side whiskers, engaged in overhauling a pile of musty papers, looked up at the entrance of our hero.
“Want a job as striker, eh?” he asked, as Jack stated his errand. “I believe Henshaw does want another man. I will call him. What is your name?”