"I t'ought dot Sercomb feller vas nod going to be in der race," went on Carl, taking particular pains to let Plympton hear the remark. "He iss a sgoundrel, und nodding vould haf habbened to Matt oof it hatn't peen for him."
"I told Matt I was going to have Sercomb arrested and taken out of the contest, Carl," explained Trueman, "but Matt insisted that he be allowed to stay in the race."
"By gad," said Plympton, turning again, "the boy was right! He wants to beat Sercomb, and he knows it's a whole lot better to give him every advantage. King is a game sportsman, and I take off my hat to him."
"Dot Sercomb feller vat runs der car for you, Gurnel Plympton," said Carl, "iss some pad eggs. Dere don'd vas nodding fair aboudt him. He has hat it in for Matt for a long dime, und iss der piggest fillian dot efer vas. He vill dry on somet'ing in der race yet, you vatch und see."
"You're mistaken, young man," said Plympton sharply.
"I think you are, too, Carl," spoke up Trueman. "Sercomb, no matter how much he may hate Matt, won't dare do anything crooked."
"Vy nod? Dot feller iss der vorst dot efer vas. Aroundt on der odder site oof der race course he mighdt run indo Matt, oder do somet'ing like dot."
"Beautiful, beautiful," murmured Plympton, watching Matt pass Mings a second time; "I never saw such driving as King is doing."
"He can do anyt'ing!" declared Carl, swelling up. "He iss my bard, und he iss der lucky poy. Oof Sercomb leds him alone, Matt vill vin der race. Aber I don'd t'ink Sercomb vill do dot."
For two hours longer the breathless crowd held to their places. Only Sercomb and Matt were left on the course, all the rest of the machines having given out, or their drivers having given up.