Matt did not see the waving hats or fluttering handkerchiefs, nor did he hear the bedlam of yells that went up on every side. All he saw was the Dart, his eye marking the gain of the Sprite.
It was already apparent to Ollie Merton and Halloran that the race was lost—unless something unexpected happened to Motor Matt or the Sprite.
Halloran was getting the last particle of speed out of the Dart's engine, and steadily, relentlessly, the Sprite was creeping ahead.
Deep down in Merton's soul a desperate purpose was fighting with his better nature. Suddenly the evil got the upper hand. Merton waited, his sinister face full of relentless determination.
"When the Sprite takes the lead," he said to himself, "something is going to happen."
In one minute more Matt forged ahead. The finish line was close now, and Merton was already stung with the bitterness of defeat.
His hand reached inside his sweater. When it was withdrawn, a revolver came with it.
Why Merton had brought that revolver with him, he alone could tell. It may have been for some such purpose as this.
Matt's back was toward Merton, and Matt's eyes were peering steadily ahead.
If that left hand could be touched—just scratched—the king of the motor boys would be powerless to manage the Sprite.