Of course, the race was Matt's. He was the full course, nearly, ahead of Sercomb. Even if the No. 13 stood still, the race would still be Matt's. Why, then, was Sercomb continuing the hopeless fight?
Around the course came the two cars, Matt keeping the lead by two or three feet. As the two machines, one white and the other red, raced toward the finish-line, the crowd grew nearly frantic.
Rising in their seats the people yelled until they were hoarse; men threw up their hats, and women fluttered their handkerchiefs.
Then suddenly the wild cheering died as if by magic. Sercomb, perhaps carried away by the heat of the contest, had given his steering-wheel into the charge of his mechanic, a red-haired Irishman, and was leaning far over toward the other car.
Sercomb had a wrench in his hand, and his purpose, as could clearly be seen, was to strike Matt with the heavy instrument.
The crowd caught its breath.
"I toldt you, I toldt you!" Carl was muttering to himself as his frenzied eyes watched the grim little affair as it went forward.
Matt, busy with his driving, could not see the danger that threatened him; but not so with the lad at his side. Chub, facing backward in his seat, made a quick move outward and sideways.
The wrench, at that moment, was on the point of falling.
Chub caught the murderous hand just in the nick of time to save Motor Matt.