Mounted officers patrolled the circuit and kept the crowd back of the danger line.
Each car's weight, with tanks empty, was limited to fifteen hundred pounds. The weighing-in was going forward when Trueman, Chub, and Carl reached the track. The owners of cars that were overweight had to do some more stripping while those that were under the limit found that they could take aboard some necessary appliances of which they were quick to avail themselves.
Mr. Borden, the gray-haired patron of the race, was in evidence here and there about the grounds. It was the first of the races, for which he stood sponsor, ever run in the vicinity of his home town, and he was as pleased as a four-year-old with a tin whistle.
Colonel Plympton was prominently in the public eye, mingling with the Stark-Frisbie drivers and mechanics and giving personal attention to every car. Lambert, of the rival concern, was filling a corresponding position with his own cars and drivers. Many other firms had their representatives on the spot.
The first car to start was a Stark-Frisbie, 70-h.-p., with Joe Mings at the wheel. It got away in a perfect bedlam of cheers.
Two minutes later, car Number Two with Patsy Grier driving for Bly-Lambert, was sent from the tape. It shot away like a streak, and was through the gap in the fence and bound for the river before the wild yelling had died away.
Next came three touring-cars, driven by local celebrities, all out for a good time and caring little about the race.
Then came a No. 6 Bly-Lambert with Balt Finn up, then another touring-car, then a little 40-horse racer, then a No. 9 Stark-Frisbie, Packard driving.
As Packard got away, a wild-eyed, disheveled youth shot through the crowd lining the track and broke into the banked racers that were waiting for the start.
"Mr. Trueman! Out of there, quick! Give me your racing clothes."