“Yes! Keeping it is what counts. But if any of these fellows start racing over the sort of roads there are between Greenbaugh and Olin City, for instance, they’ll shake their machines to pieces inside of five miles. Remember, we’ve got to climb a mountain chain twice during the run, and it will be a stiff pull each time.”
“Don’t you fret. You’re the doctor,” grunted Billy. “I’m not going to put in my oar. I’ll trust to your judgment every time, old man.”
“Well, I may make a mistake,” admitted Dan. “But I’m glad for one that Chance and Burton are not near us.”
“No, they’re lucky to get away among the first—seven will be tacked onto the hood of their car,” said Billy, who had been studying the advertised list of entries. “And do you notice where Mr. Briggs’ maroon Postlethwaite is? He’s running near us—forty-one.”
“We’ll have good neighbors, then,” chuckled Dan.
“I don’t suppose the cars will remain long in the order they start, do you?”
“I don’t know. We can leave when we please on the second day’s run. I want, if possible, to make the Holly Tree Inn at Farmingdale on our first day.”
“Whew!” ejaculated Billy, after consulting his guide. “That’s three hundred miles—nearly. Do you think we can do it?”
“I don’t know. I mean to try.”
“And you were the one who said that racing wouldn’t pay.”