It was not more than two hours later, when there came a banging at Stanley’s door, accompanied by the voice of Clay Varron calling to him to open.
“What’s the matter. Clay? Anything happened? My uncle? Anything from him?”
“No. I haven’t heard from him. How should I? He wouldn’t write or telegraph me, would he? No. It’s something else. Paul Wallman, your mechanician, is in the hospital.”
“What?” cried Stanley, realizing with a rush what this might mean to him in the race. “Hurt? Sick?”
“Badly smashed by a car. It happened in the garage. He was bending down by the side of your Thunderbolt. Another man, handling cars up there, didn’t see him, and shoved a big car against him, crushing him against an iron post. He dropped in a heap, and they hurried him off to the hospital. His right arm is broken, and they were afraid of internal injuries, but I hear there is nothing of that kind. His broken arm puts him out of the race with you, however.”
“What am I to do?” exclaimed Stanley Downs, knitting his brows. “This is a serious matter. It may mean that I shall be hopelessly beaten. Poor Paul! I’m sorry for him, too. What shall I do? I’ll have to get another mechanician. But good ones are scarce. I can’t afford to risk the race with one I don’t know. At the same time——”
“Look here, Stan!” broke in Varron. “I didn’t come here to bring bad news without having something to suggest.”
“What is it, Clay?” questioned Stanley, as he clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I suppose you have found a good man for me—as good a one as Paul Wallman?”
“I don’t know about that,” was the modest response. “The man I have for you is myself!”
“Yourself?”