“Keep on, Drummond!” shrieked the men, taking off their caps and waving them. “Don’t be beaten, old man!”
But he could not hear them above the terrible roar of his exhaust. No express train ever designed had run so quickly as he was now travelling. Official timekeepers were standing, chronometers in hand, calmly watching, and judges were making ready to declare the winner.
Every spectator stood breathless. It was really marvellous that one hundred miles could have been covered in that brief space of time while they had been watching.
Again, and yet again, the two cars flashed by, yet still Dick lagged behind.
Suddenly, however, they came round for the last lap, and as they passed the watchful widow, the Englishman like a shot from a gun, passed his opponent and won by twenty yards.
When he pulled up, after having run again round the course to slacken speed, he almost fell into the arms of the crowd of men who came up to congratulate him.
Mrs Edmondson had left her post of vantage and stood near by. She overheard one of them—it was Mason—say:
“By Jove, Dick! This is a wonderful run. You’ve broken the five, ten, and hundred mile records! The fortune of your car is made?”
Then the victor turned to his opponent and shook his hand, saying in French:
“Thank you, my dear Carlier, for a very excellent race.”