"Come, come!" growled Plympton angrily. "You've got too much sense, Trueman, to take any stock in such a yarn as that."
"Have I? Well, read this over and then tell me how much stock you take in it."
With that, he handed Slocum's confession to Plympton. The latter read it with consternation in his face.
"It seems incredible!" he muttered, as he passed the paper back. "Whether he wins or loses, this is Sercomb's last race for Stark-Frisbie."
"I thought so!" chuckled Trueman, returning the document to his pocket.
[CHAPTER XIV.]
THE FIRST HALF OF THE RACE.
Motor Matt had made up his mind, before starting, that he would take the first round steadily and easily. Elimination would be going on steadily, and it was just as well to see what was going to happen before taking the long chances.
The morning was bright and sunny. There was not a cloud in the sky. A gentle breeze fanned the course and dissipated the dust raised by the cars.