The No. 13 was holding up under the strain in fine shape. Nothing had gone wrong with either car or motor.
Chub had strapped himself to his seat. He was busying himself with the lubrication and the fuel supply, keeping tab on everything that was purely mechanical so that Matt would have nothing to do but drive.
Both chums had a deep curiosity to learn what had befallen each other; but that was a time when personal considerations of every nature were of minor importance. Nothing was thought of but the race; every faculty was centered upon the question of speed, and more speed, and then a little more.
The passing of Finn, on the beautiful sweep of road between the river and Le Loup, was an exciting event. In every way possible Finn sought to block the road; yet steadily, persistently, Matt crept alongside the Bly-Lambert car, swung into the lead and hurled through Le Loup.
In the distance, well up the slope toward Coal Run, Matt and Chub could see the moving dust kicked up by Mings' car.
With teeth set and eyes flashing behind his goggles, Matt hurled the No. 13 at the hill. The car jumped up the ascent with incredible speed.
Swiftly, surely, Mings was being overhauled. The spectators in the grand stand had an excellent view of the sharp little scrimmage which put Matt in the lead. The No. 13 appeared to leap alongside the No. 1 car, both drivers turning the very last ounce of power into their cylinders. For the space of a breath it seemed as though the wheels of the two cars would lock. As they rushed around the curve in the track, Matt swung ahead and took the inside course.
The roar from the crowd was tremendous. But Matt was not thinking of that. He was in the lead, now, and his one idea was to keep it.
Mings had left the starting-tape twenty-four minutes ahead of him, and if Matt had come over the last lap a fraction less than that behind Mings, the race would still have gone to the Jarrot people.
There were still cars on the course, and Matt began meeting and passing those that had left behind him.