"Our third speed's gone," Matt answered. "It's first, second, fourth, second, first from now on."
"That means we're out of it," growled Chub gloomily.
"I don't know about that," answered Matt. "The race seems to be between us, Sercomb, and Mings. We'll hang on and do our best. Maybe Mings is out of it—he's lagging terribly, even if he isn't—and we know Sercomb is having troubles."
As the No. 13 rushed past the grand stand amid the cheers of the people, Trueman could see that something was wrong; but he was feeling more hopeful. Matt was in the lead and if he could keep it and fight down the mishaps that assailed him, there was still a chance that he would hold the lead and win.
As if the troubles Matt had had were not enough, on the road toward the river the motor began to misfire. Having to run on three cylinders instead of four diminished the speed materially, and Chub groaned in his discouragement.
"Don't take it so hard, Chub," said Matt. "Be jeerful, as Carl says. There's Mings' car piled up against a tree."
As they dashed past along the river road they saw the No. 1 smashed badly, and Mings and his mechanic limping around the wreck in extreme dejection.
Miles farther around the circuit they came upon Sercomb. He and his assistant had just finished their repairs and were starting on again.
Matt and Chub had made the complete round of the track and had overhauled Sercomb, but Sercomb was now bidding fair to recover lost ground and take the race from the crippled Jarrot car.
"Did you ever see such measly luck?" growled Chub.