“That Columbiad may do it,” observed Colonel Frank Prentiss to a few of his intimates, as he stood in the judges’ stand and looked over the vast crowd that had gathered in the hope of seeing a smashed record. “There is a possibility, that the Thunderbolt may touch it, too.”
“I’d like to see the Thunderbolt win,” remarked an elderly man, with the indescribable air of wealth about him that can seldom be mistaken. “It is an American car. The Columbiad is of foreign make, I believe?”
“Yes,” replied Lawrence K. Ranfelt, who had brought this gentleman into the stand as a special favor. “It is driven by an American, however. Victor Burnham. Ever heard of him?”
“Yes, I’ve heard of him,” replied the other dryly. “I guess I’ll get down to my car. I can see the race from there comfortably. Come with me. Ranfelt?”
“Yes. I believe I will,” replied Lawrence K., as he went down the spiral staircase with the elderly gentleman. “My girl Helen is with a party of friends in another car.”
The preliminaries of the big race were carried out rapidly and in businesslike fashion.
The drivers and mechanicians had looked their machines over for the last time, had given them little dashes over the track to make sure that everything worked easily, and now were lining up across the wide speedway to have their photographs taken en masse.
It was difficult to tell one from the other at a little distance. They all looked like machinists in very soiled clothing, while the tight caps, goggles in front, and the coat collars pulled up high, helped to hide the fact that many of the contestants were extremely personable young men, who, in their street clothing, were rather finicky about their appearance.
Stanley Downs and Clay Varron stood side by side, and close by were Victor Burnham, with his mechanician, Dan Saltus. Stanley and Burnham did not look at each other, but Dan Saltus glanced rather curiously at Clay Varron. Saltus had heard of Paul Wallman’s injury, and he rather wondered what kind of mechanician Stanley would have with him in the Thunderbolt.
“Get into your cars, gentlemen!” ordered the starter, as he waved to the loud brass band to stop playing. “Ready!”