"They're off," muttered Lorry, with a wheeze, drawing a handkerchief over his forehead.
It is nothing to his discredit that his hand shook a little.
"Oh, dad," whispered Ethel, clasping her father's arm, "didn't he look fine and—and determined? I know he'll win, I just know it."
"Say, Lorry," asked Mr. Merton, "who's that youngster over there on that launch—the one that's making such a fool of himself."
"That?" asked Mr. Lorry, squinting in the direction indicated. "Oh, that's my nephew, McGlory. But don't blame him for acting the fool—I feel a little inclined that way myself."
[CHAPTER XV.]
THE FINISH.
The doctor's guess was a good one. The excitement of that race was exactly what Motor Matt needed. It was a tonic, and from the moment he had entered the Sprite in the Yahara Club boathouse, he was the Mile-a-Minute Matt of motor cycle and automobile days. His nerves were like steel wires, his brain was steady, and his eye keen and true.
There was a good deal of vibration—much more, in fact, than Matt had really thought there would be. The more power used up in vibration, the less power delivered at the wheel. But what would the vibration have been if he had not exercised so much care in preparing the engine's bed?