"You're my prisoner, Sercomb," said he.
At that moment a touring-car came slowly past the place where the little group was standing. The car contained Trueman, Matt, Carl, and Chub, with one of the Jarrot mechanics at the steering-wheel.
They were all smiling and happy, but a puzzled look crossed Matt's face as his gaze rested on the officer and Sercomb.
"Stop a minute!" called Plympton, stepping toward the car. "King," he went on, reaching up to take Matt's hand, "I have done you an injustice, and I ask your pardon. You have acted like a gentleman and a true sportsman and you drove a race that will go down into automobile history as one of the pluckiest ever pulled off. Your car bothered you a good deal, but you hung on and won."
"We won on three speeds," replied Matt. "We had trouble and stripped one of the gears."
"Dree speeds aheadt," bubbled Carl. "Vell, dot vas enough."
"Certainly it has proved so," said the colonel. "The Jarrot people have first claim on your services, King, but if they don't offer you enough, I wish you'd give us a chance."
"Here, here," laughed Trueman. "I don't think the Jarrot people will let you steal from them the driver that won the cup."
"What are you doing with Sercomb, colonel?" queried Matt, still with his eyes on the beaten driver.
"He is under arrest," was the grim reply.