"It's the biggest race, at that. Even if we don't win, it's something to beat the Bly-Lambert people. We've thrown dust in the faces of the cup-holders, anyhow."
Tales of accident on the course had been drifting in, and some of the drivers of the wrecked and disabled cars had got back to the Park.
As by a miracle, no one had been killed, it seemed, or even dangerously hurt.
"Ah!" shouted Colonel Plympton, his eyes on the gap in the fence on the other side of the track, "here comes Sercomb now!"
A flurry of dust was shooting through the break in the fence and turning into the track for the home-stretch. For a space the thick blanket of dust shrouded the car and it was impossible to tell whose car it was.
"Don't be too sure that it's Sercomb," cautioned Trueman excitedly. "I've got money that says it's King."
"Done for a hundred!" returned Plympton promptly. "If it isn't Sercomb, I owe you the money."
Just then the wind whipped aside the dust and a most astonishing sight presented itself.
The dust was raised by both cars, for Matt and Sercomb were rounding the track almost side by side.
Strangely enough, the third cylinder of the No. 13 had stopped its rebellion. Dropping in line with the others, it had taken up its rhythmical action and was doing its full part.