Twenty, forty, a hundred miles had been covered, and Stanley Downs lifted his machine almost even with the Columbiad. Another effort and he would pass.
It was at this instant that Stanley caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of the driver of the Columbiad, as the latter turned his head slightly in the direction of his rival. Also, he saw that the mechanician, Dan Saltus, was shouting something to Burnham, as he raised his hand, apparently in remonstrance.
It was all so quick that afterward Stanley Downs did not know exactly what he had seen in the Columbiad.
Just as Saltus shouted, there was a quick swerve of the Columbiad, and it crowded toward the Thunderbolt.
It was the same trick that Burnham had played early in the race, and which then might have resulted in the horrible death of the four men in the two cars.
Stanley gripped his wheel tighter and tried to steer out of the way, even although he knew it would lose for him two or three hundred precious yards.
But he did not go quite far enough! The Columbiad bore down on him, and the two raced along for a second or two, with only a few inches separating them.
Then came the crash. By one of those curious combinations of circumstances not uncommon in automobiling, it chanced that a rear corner of the Thunderbolt clipped the other car just where it would upset its gravity.
Bang! Smash!
The Columbiad was on its side, while Stanley, quickly recovering from the jar, whirled on alone.