“I’m ready to guarantee that the Thunderbolt is in perfect condition to-night,” he said. “That means it will be the same in the morning, for it will be shut up here by the garage men after we’ve gone, and no one else will see it till I come down here to drive it to the speedway.”
“You’ll drive it through the city yourself, then?” asked Varron.
“Certainly. It is the safest thing to do.”
“How do you feel yourself?” asked Mr. Ranfelt, slapping him on the shoulder. “Think you are fit?”
“Seem to be,” replied Stanley, as the party filed out of the room and went down the stairs on their way to the street.
“Now, Hank,” said the man he had called Bill. “If you want to take a flash at the Thunderbolt, now is your time.”
Hank Swartz walked over to the racer, over which a bunch of electric lights still glowed, and bent down to look at her closely.
This man had owned several cars in his life, and he knew the “points” of an automobile. So his examination of the Thunderbolt was an intelligent one, even though he was not long making it.
“Well?” queried Bill, as Swartz at last moved away from the Thunderbolt. “What do you think of her?”
Hank Swartz drew a long breath. Then he shook his head slowly.