“Well, isn’t it all the same?” rejoined Swartz. “He wants her, and he’ll stand a fair show of getting her if he pulls off this race. I’m mighty glad you and he have it framed up to get it for him.”
“There you go again, Hank!” complained Dan Saltus. “Who has anything ‘framed up’? It’s going to be a straight contest, with the best car and driver winning. You know that, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. You needn’t fly off the handle just because we are having a little friendly talk. I’m going around to look at the Thunderbolt, if I can. It’s in the Moussard garage. They are not letting strangers look her over, of course. But I know the boys there, and I reckon I can get in to see what she looks like at close range.”
Hank Swartz strolled out, after a friendly “So long!” to Dan, and walked across that part of the city for about a quarter of a mile before he stopped in front of another garage, which was enough like the one where he had left Dan Saltus to be mistaken for it, if it had been next door.
It was in an upstairs warehouse that Swartz found several persons standing around the racer that Stanley Downs was to drive in the trial for two miles on the morrow.
One of the garage men took Swartz up and directed him to stand out of sight behind a big limousine until the party looking at the Thunderbolt went away.
“Then you can give her the once over without one knowing anything about it,” said the man to Swartz. “The boss gave orders that nobody was to see it except Mr. Downs and his friends—and Mr. Ranfelt, of course. They are over there now, but they won’t stay long.”
“All right, Bill,” returned Swartz, as the two sat on the running board of the limousine.
“You will easily qualify at the trial to-morrow, Mr. Downs,” remarked Helen Ranfelt, as Stanley Downs pointed out to her the various items that made up the big Thunderbolt. “I know something about automobiles, and I can see that you have about everything in this car that you could want in a racer. How I should like to drive her over the track myself, just once,” she added wistfully.
“It wouldn’t be as comfortable as your Fanchon, Helen,” put in her father. “Besides, it isn’t customary for young ladies to drive in races.”