Dan Saltus took up some cotton waste and wiped away a streak of black oil he had just observed on one of the brake rods of the gray racer. It enabled him to avoid a response.
“This car is better than anything to be driven in that race—except one.”
“The Thunderbolt?”
“Yes.”
“I see. But what are you going to do about it?”
Victor Burnham glanced furtively about him. Then he moved close to the grimy mechanic, still busy with his waste, and whispered in his ear:
“What can you do about it?”
“I don’t get you.”
“Oh, yes, you do,” insisted Burnham. “But you don’t want to admit it. You’re not a bonehead exactly.”
“Thanks! But you’ll have to come across more plainly than this if you want a straight answer from me,” declared Dan doggedly.