He walked out of the garage without looking back. Outside, he lighted a cigar, which he puffed contentedly as he went along.
“The coldest proposition I ever went up against,” reflected Dan Saltus, aloud, looking after the departing Burnham. “By gravy, I believe he’d rather have that young fellow Downs killed than not. If Burnham knew I was on to his game to the very bottom, he’d be surprised, I reckon. He thinks I think all he cares about is to win this race just for the sake of the glory and my thousand dollars. Strange how things come about. If it hadn’t been that Hank Swartz is a friend of mine, I’d never have got on to it all. As it is, I reckon that——Hello, Hank! Where did you blow in from?”
A wide-shouldered, lean-faced man, with the deep tan on his face that told of outdoor life in the open country—for he could not have got so brown anywhere else—strolled into the garage and coolly appropriated the one wooden chair in sight, which was usually occupied by the foreman when he had nothing else to do.
CHAPTER VI.
The Heart of the Plot.
“I HAVE been attending to affairs for Burnham,” replied Hank Swartz, when he was comfortably settled in his chair. “I wish I could smoke in here.”
“Well, you can’t,” snapped Dan. “You know that as well as I do. This is a garage.”
“All right. I just dropped in to see how the Columbiad looked? Where is she?”
“She’s put away upstairs, in her own little flat,” answered Dan, with his usual surly grin. “We are not showing her to everybody until the day of the race. Then some of them may see her a little too much. She’s going to win that cup and the purse, Hank.”
“Of course she is. She must. There’ll be a neat little sum in side bets, too. Gee! I reckon Vic Burnham will clean up about fifty thousand. Well, he needs it.”