[CHAPTER XII.]
FORTY-EIGHT HOURS OF DARKNESS.
Motor Matt had never felt in better spirits, worn and weary though he was, than when he had climbed the stairs to his room that Saturday evening. He had gone over the course three times that day, and the cylinders of the Number Thirteen had pulled nobly. There had been a little tire trouble during the first two rounds, but nothing had gone wrong on the last circuit, and Trueman had held the watch on him. He had done the fifty-two miles in less than an hour.
"You'll improve on that," Trueman had said, "when you've got a man in front of you to overhaul. There'll be twelve ahead of you at the start, and among the twelve will be two of the fast Stark-Frisbie cars and one of the Bly-Lambert machines as pacemakers."
Matt was well pleased with the prospect. Every car entered for the race had passed under his scrutiny, and he felt positive the chance for the Number Thirteen to win was excellent.
Sitting in a comfortable chair in his room, he rang for his ice-water and fell to going over the course of the race in his mind. Every foot of the road was plainly mapped before him.
The water came and he took a long drink. Perhaps the very chill of it served to disguise the slightly astringent taste caused by the drug. At any rate, he did not notice that anything was wrong.
Carl came by, rapped on the door and said good-night. While Matt listened, Carl's feet seemed to go on and on along the hall interminably. It was a queer delusion, and Matt shook back his shoulders and laughed softly.
"I mustn't let this race get on my nerves so much," he said to himself. "Nerves are bad things for a racing-driver. I'm tired out, and I guess I'll turn in."