“What’s the matter with you, Stan? Buck up! You took a risk of your life to save a girl, and you did what any man ought to do. The fact that some of them would have held back is nothing to do with the case. When you knew that that crazy kid cousin of mine was driving straight to a horrible death, you followed her up and brought her through. If you call that ‘falling down,’ or behaving like a fool, then I can only say I wish there were more fools like you in the world.”
Stanley Downs placed his two hands affectionately on the shoulders of his loyal friend and looked him in the eyes, as he asked earnestly:
“Clay, now, on the level, would you ask me to tell a deliberate lie to my uncle, who has always been straight with me—who has been indeed more than a father—and who would fight any man who dared even to hint that I would juggle with the truth? Would you?”
Clay Varron coughed in embarrassment. Then he answered, in as earnest a voice as Stanley’s own:
“Of course you can’t do it, Stan. But I don’t know what to advise you to telegraph him. I don’t, by gosh!”
“There is only one way out of it that I can see,” declared Stanley, after a few minutes’ cogitation. “That is, to evade his question for the present. I am in hopes that after Thursday I shall be able to go to New York with the money.”
“You will, old man,” was Clay’s eager response. “You’ll win that race and have twenty thousand dollars, to replace what you have lost. I am sure of that. I believed it before I saw the trial to-day. Now I know there is nothing can beat the Thunderbolt, with you at the wheel. This Columbiad may be a good car. I believe it is. But, the cars being equal—and I have no idea that the Columbiad is better than the Thunderbolt, you are a better driver than Burnham. That will give you just the ‘edge’ you require to come in first. Your judgment in driving will beat Burnham, as sure as that the sun will rise to-morrow morning.”
There was no resisting the enthusiasm of Clay Varron. A smile broke over Stanley’s troubled countenance, and it was with a feeling of confidence that he took up a pad of telegraph blanks from a table to write a message to Richard Burwin.
He was some little time composing the telegram. At last, however, he had written what he thought would be the best thing, and he read it to Clay, in the following words:
Am detained in Buffalo until after the automobile race on Thursday. Have business with Colonel Prentiss. Will come to New York on Friday. All well.