Matt was dumfounded.
"I was told that there was a train at six-thirty, or seven," said he.
"Sure," answered the nightman, "but it goes the other way."
"This is tough luck!" exclaimed Matt. "You see," he explained, "I'm to drive a car in that race this morning, and the first car starts off at eight. My car is Number Thirteen. There's a two-minute interval between each car, and that starts me about twenty-four minutes after eight. How far is Ottawa from here?"
"Twenty-four miles."
"Any way I can get there in time for the race?"
"You couldn't get there with a horse an' buggy, that's sure. There's a gasoline speeder in the shed, and the track-inspector sleeps on t'other side the yards in Hooligan's boarding house. You might get the inspector to take you down."
Here was a ray of hope. Matt inquired hastily how to find Hooligan's place, and set out to get the inspector. He was an hour getting the man, and another half-hour getting him to agree to run the speeder to Ottawa. Matt had to promise the inspector twenty-five dollars for making the trip. Another half-hour was lost filling the speeder's tank and getting the machine ready for the road, and the sun was rising before they chugged off along the glimmering rails.
The motor had a chronic habit of misfiring, and there were numberless stops ranging in length from one minute to ten while the machinery was tinkered with.
The entrance to Forest Park was not more than a stone's throw from the railroad track, and as the speeder came close to the town Matt saw the first car leap through the gap in the fence and bear away in the direction of the river road.