"Sure!" cooed Carl. "You vill be in it mit bot' feets efen oof vone leg iss gone. How iss dot for a choke?"
"It may not be so easy to break into the game, after all."
"Eferyt'ing iss easy for Modor Matt," gloried Carl. "You vill ged indo der game schust like falling off some logs. For vy nod?"
"Well, for one thing, I haven't any racing record behind me."
"Ach, hear dot! Ditn't you beat oudt a Limidet Egspress Drain mit a modorcycle? Und hain't you peen racing pubbles efer since ve left Ash Fork?"
"All that hasn't given me a racing record. When a manufacturer puts a twenty-thousand-dollar racing-car in the field, he wants to be more than sure that his driver has plenty of nerve and skill. About the only way he can be sure of that is by looking back over his record and seeing what he has done."
"Vell, let dem look pack so far as dey blease ofer your recordt. Dey vill findt some surbrises, you bed you."
"The race for the Borden cup is only two weeks off, Carl. The Automobile Club decided it was to be run over a Kansas course, and limited to western machines. Why, some of the contestants have already been on the scene of the race for a week!"
"I don'd care for dot," averred Carl stoutly. "You vill make goot schust der same. Mindt vat I say."
Just then there came a rap on the door. Matt answered the summons and found the bell-boy with a card. "Colonel Jasper Plympton," ran the legend on the bit of pasteboard.