Matt had turned the Comet so that it was pointing south.
"There's your letter," called the notary, as Matt came past.
Matt grabbed it, took it in his teeth, and dropped both hands on the grip-control. The last car of the train was opposite him, and the thick, acrid smoke of the engine streamed in his face.
Nothing daunted by the lead the limited had of him, he opened the Comet up for a record run.
It was to be the Comet's last flight—and it came within a hair's breadth of being Motor Matt's.
[CHAPTER XIV.]
STEAM VERSUS GASOLINE.
Motor Matt knew, as well as he knew anything, that there was more speed in the Comet than there was in Moody's big Baldwin engine.
Moody's running-time was perhaps forty miles an hour. He might, on such a favorable stretch of track, eat into his lost thirty minutes at the rate of fifty miles an hour, but he would hardly dare to do better than that.