Not so, however, Dan and Billy. They had overhauled their car as usual the night before. They were well acquainted with the stretch of road before them. At seven o’clock they wheeled out before the hotel, took the time from the starter, and whirled away, spraying the mud on either side from under their wheels, in a wide fan.
Only one of their rivals was on the road before them, and Dan and Billy raced and passed that car within the first fifteen minutes, and did not see it again until it reached the Compton Motordrome.
There was one car, however, that kept close on their trail. They heard it frequently and sometimes caught glimpses of it; but it was so far away that neither Dan nor Billy could identify it. They, however, feared this speedy car. Indeed, although they knew now that they would arrive first at the end of the run, they were not sure that they would have won this glorious race.
It was with fear and trembling that they passed over the line, ran into the big arena and saw their time marked up on the board: A thousand and eight miles in forty-three hours and four minutes.
The car behind them shot into the motordrome and proved to be Mr. Darringford’s.
“I believe I’ve beat you, boys!” he cried, leaping out of his car.
But the time keeper announced his time as forty-three hours, fifteen minutes, twenty-four seconds.
“I declare!” laughed the gentleman, “it will be nothing to brag of, no matter who wins the gold cup. The weather was against fast running yesterday and this morning. Here comes another!”
It was number seven. The heavy car rolled in beside the Speedwells’ and came to a groaning halt. It was nearly shaken to pieces. Chance had certainly punished his partner’s auto hard during those last few miles.
But to no purpose. Their time was forty-four hours flat, and there were several cars that beat number seven. Burton came and shook hands warmly with Dan and Billy, while Chance sneaked away.