“What’s that?” almost shouted Ranfelt. “Do you really mean it?”
“Indeed I do! Why not? I can drive, and I want the money.”
“But entering the race does not insure the money for you,” the millionaire reminded him.
“Nothing is sure in sport, any more than in other things,” answered Stanley. “But if I don’t enter, I shall not have even a fighting chance. That is what I want—a fighting chance at winning twenty thousand dollars.”
“Fine!” exclaimed L. K. Ranfelt, as he took Stanley’s hand. “I am glad to hear you say this. It is the way to deal with a difficult situation. I wish you luck. Although,” he added slowly, “perhaps I ought not to wish you that, if I am to be consistent.”
“Why not?” asked Stanley in some surprise.
“Because Victor Burnham is going to drive in the race, with a Columbiad,” replied Ranfelt. “It is not generally known, but I knew it. Burnham drove his trial two-mile dash two or three days ago, qualifying as an entrant. He did the two miles in a minute and a third—rather less. That gave him something to spare. If you are going to drive, you haven’t much time. I’d advise you to get to the track and try out your car right away. You were there yesterday, I understand.”
“Yes. I meant to take the money to the bank in New York, and then go right back. I promised to give the Thunderbolt owners my decision by telegraph to-day. Can I telephone to the telegraph office from here?”
“Come into my private office. I have a phone there.”
It took nearly ten minutes to get the telegraph office, fifteen miles away, and then Stanley Downs had to repeat his message twice before the operator could catch it and repeat it back for verification.