CHAPTER IX.

A Broken Record.

IT was a splendid day for the big race. There was not too much sun, for a soft mist hung in the air, tempering the light. But it was bright and comfortably warm, nevertheless. In a word, it was perfect spring weather.

The grand stand, bleachers, and every other part of the immense grounds where admission was charged were crowded with sight-seers. In the vast acreage around the track set apart for automobiles, the machines were parked several deep, and in all of them were groups of well-dressed men and beautifully dressed women, who had come from all parts of the country to see what could be done by motor cars that were the last word in scientific achievement.

There was a record already of more than a hundred and two miles an hour by an American car. Would this be beaten to-day? That was the question. Or would it ever be equaled?

“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!”

He gave a few directions to the drivers, as the eighteen cars in the race were brought to a stop inside the line. He told them they were to go once around the track, with a big car which stood a few yards in front of them as a pacer. They were not to pass the pacer. When they came around they could take a flying start for the real race as he dropped his flag.

Away went the cars! Even the preliminary rush around the bowl was at nearly a hundred miles an hour. As they came around again, the starter shouted “Go!”—which could not be heard—and dropped his red flag.

The race was on!

A great roar arose from the fifty or sixty thousand people about the track as the cars tore around the oval. Every car was at its best just then, and the first lap of two miles was made at the rate of ninety-five miles an hour, even by the last one.

The next two miles were covered at more than a hundred, and the drivers warmed up, going higher and higher as each circuit of the great wooden bowl was completed.

The cars were scattered by this time. The whole track was dotted with them.

The Thunderbolt and Columbiad were in the ruck, neither conspicuously in the forefront, nor far behind. Both Stanley Downs and Victor Burnham were holding their cars in, contented to be safe for the present, without trying for a lead.

Time would come when some of the contestants would drop out. There were three hundred and fifty miles to go, altogether. Plenty of time for the vicious struggle that must come when victory lay just among a few of the survivors.

Stanley Downs, his goggles firmly adjusted and his eyes gazing straight ahead, knew he had his car well under control. He could feel it leaping forward in response to every light touch on the throttle, while it obeyed the least turn of the wheel over which he could just see the yellow-brown pine flooring ahead.

“She’s going all right, Stan?” shouted Varron in his ear.

“Perfectly!”

“I haven’t heard a sound from her that shouldn’t be there.”

“Nor I.”

“All right, Stan! Keep steady! You’ll make it!” reassured Clay Varron. “Hello! That was Burnham!” he added, as a car swept close to them, so that it seemed as if there had been a deliberate attempt at collision. “The man must be crazy!”

Burnham had driven his long, snaky Columbiad so close that Stanley had been obliged to swerve, giving his rival a hundred yards advantage, at least, before the Thunderbolt could recover.

It was a reckless thing to do. If Stanley Downs had not been a splendid driver, he might not have got out of the way in time. But Burnham had figured on that. He knew Stanley was on the alert, and it was worth a little risk to get that much ahead, he thought.

“You’ve got to make up that gap, Stan!” shouted Varron.

Stanley Downs did not trouble to answer. But he let in a little more gas, and his machine jumped forward in response.

“Ah!” chuckled Varron. “That’ll do it. I don’t believe——What’s that?”

A soft crack had reached his ears. It was underneath the car!

Without a moment’s hesitation, Varron leaned far over the side of the car, and seizing an iron handhold, he peered underneath.

As he pulled himself to his seat again, he shouted to Stanley Downs:

“Get down off the track. We’ll have to lose a minute or two! Not more! Hurry!”

Stanley did not ask what was the matter until he had steered his car to the inside of the track, in front of the judges’ stand. He had not quite stopped when Varron was on the ground, a pair of pliers in his hand.

Under the car he dived as it came to a standstill, and there was a minute’s work with the pliers. Then he came out, leaped into his seat, and shouted to Stanley: “Go—like the deuce!”

Up shot the Thunderbolt to the track again, and it was going as fast as any of them, almost at once. It was not till the speedometer told that once more they were doing a hundred miles an hour that Varron volunteered any information as to what had been wrong.

“Connecting rod loosened,” he explained. “It had been done purposely, for there was a nut wedged where it would prevent the thing being found out at first. I never saw anything more infernally cunning. Somebody got at the car while we were having our pictures taken. That’s the only time it could have been done, for I’d looked her over just before that. The connecting rod was all right then.”

“We’ll talk about that after the race,” said Stanley shortly.

The delay had given Burnham a start on the Thunderbolt of a whole lap—two miles.

Stanley could not lessen the distance, try as he would. He decided, after a dozen circuits of the oval, that he would not try any more just then. He would content himself with not getting any farther behind.

So far it appeared as if the Thunderbolt and Columbiad were just about equal in power and speed. It would be nip and tuck, even if they were level.

The race kept on, and car after car dropped out, unable to stand the grueling pace. When there were a hundred and fifty miles to go only nine cars remained—just half the number that had started.

“We’ve gained one lap on Burnham,” shouted Varron to Stanley. “The other cars are not in it for first place. Keep it up. We did a hundred and three miles an hour for the last lap. That beat Burnham. Go ahead! Go on!”

Varron was wild now. He saw that the Thunderbolt was slowly creeping up on its rival. A little more and they would lap him again.

“It _must_ be done! The Thunderbolt _must_ win!”

He bellowed this through the roar of the car, and though the rushing wind drove the words back into his throat, he still kept up his frantic cries of encouragement to the cool, steady driver at his side.

Stanley Downs had been in many a contest before, on the football field, at polo, and other sports. But never had he taken part in a battle as exciting as this, and never had he been cooler.

He felt that the machine was working smoothly, that every part seemed to be in perfect accord, and that he was slowly gaining on the rival who had resolved to beat him at any cost.

Clay Varron had used his oil can at frequent intervals. Being a racing car, the Thunderbolt could be replenished with oil from the seat in all of its more important parts, and Clay had taken care there should be no lack of lubricant.

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.

There was no time for Stanley to look at the wreck. He kept on with the race. He must win, no matter who might be hurt. It is the cruel rule in races of all kinds. Only those not in the actual contest can give time to look after those who may have fallen in the struggle.

As they tore around on the next lap, keeping well clear of the wrecked car, Varron saw men lifting Burnham and his mechanician away, and the next time around the Columbiad had been turned over on its wheels by a score of men and pushed out of the way.

It did not take long to cover the remaining distance. As Stanley Downs rushed the Thunderbolt over the finish line, his number went up on the board: “Number 5 wins!” Directly afterward the time was recorded also: “103.10.”

This meant that the Thunderbolt had covered the three hundred and fifty miles at an average speed of more than one hundred and three miles an hour.

Stanley Downs had beaten the record!

It was some time before Stanley could get to a certain car parked in the infield, in whom he had seen an elderly gentleman, to whom he wanted very much to speak.

There were a number of formalities to be gone through. The man who had won the Lawrence Cup could not be allowed to go away till he had been addressed by the judges and had his photograph taken.

Then he had to go and change his clothes after a shower bath, and do various other things to bring him back to his usual appearance.

It was all done at last, however, and he dashed for the car that had been his aim all along since he had finished the race and had time to look about him.

“Uncle!” he cried, as the elderly gentleman took his hand in a warm, strong grip. “Somehow, I had a feeling that you’d come—especially when I got no reply to my telegram. I’m very glad to see you.”

Richard Burwin was an unemotional man, as a rule. But there were tears behind his glasses as he said brokenly:

“Stan, my boy, I knew all about it. I know more than you do. That fellow Burnham was pretty slick, but not quite slick enough for the old man. I had his measure from the first. However, he’s dead, so——”

“Dead?”

“Yes. He was smashed all to pieces. Crushed almost to a jelly. Dreadful thing, of course. But he got it when he tried to crowd you off the track—or kill you. I don’t believe he cared what he did. His mechanician will get well they say.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” said Stanley earnestly.

“So am I,” came from Richard Burwin. “I am told he confessed, when they carried him off the track, and when he thought he was dying, that he had stolen a package of twenty thousand dollars from you when you were at the track before you started for New York in your car.”

“Stole it?” cried Stanley, dazed.

“Yes. He changed it on you. Common trick among crooks, you know. The old green-goods game! So you had only a bundle of worthless paper, with a real bank note on the outside, in your car pocket. That’s what went to the bottom of the lake. The money is safe, the fellow says. We’ll get it back when we’ve seen him at the hospital, and got his formal confession. Now, let’s get away from here. We’re going to take luncheon with Ranfelt—an old friend of mine—Prentiss, and Miss Ranfelt——”

“Why, Mr. Downs, won’t you let me congratulate you?” broke in the sweet voice of Helen Ranfelt. “I have been trying to do it all the time you have been talking to Mr. Burwin.” Then, in a lower tone, that only Stanley could hear: “You know how much this means to me. I am horrified at Mr. Burnham’s death. But—wouldn’t it have been dreadful if he had won the race?”

“Hello, Helen! How do you think you’d like to be a mechanician?” asked Clay Varron, laughing, as he took his fair cousin’s hand. “It’s great sport, I assure you.”

“Clay, you’re splendid,” she answered. “If you hadn’t helped Mr. Downs to win the cup, I never would have forgiven you.”

SOME NEW INVENTIONS

To convert an ordinary wash boiler into a washing machine, an inventor has patented a metal cone, perforated at the top, so that jets of boiling water are forced through clothing.

An electrical annunciator device, operated by push buttons on chairs throughout a hall, is working successfully in Holland to auction eggs without the usual noise and confusion of such sales.

Both the moistening and sealing of letters is done in a single operation by a new office implement, in which a dampened roller passes under the flaps, ahead of a larger one, that closes them.

To enable automobiles to pull themselves up hills or out of soft spots in roads, a South Dakota inventor has patented a windlass which may be attached to the rear hub of the car and operated by a motor.

A Seattle man has invented a device which keeps automobiles from skidding on wet pavements. There is a receptacle under the rear seat of the car in which sand is placed, and, by pressing a pedal on the floor of the car, the sand is released and spread in front of the rear wheels, giving instant traction.

A tin hood which fits over a rooster’s head and neck in such a way as to prevent the fowl from heralding the dawn has been invented. A rooster did too much early-morning crowing near a police station, and one of the policemen devised the invention, which is said to work perfectly, and without injuring the rooster.

A pump that not only pumps up an automobile tire within a few minutes, but that keeps the tire at that pressure, regardless of large punctures, is a new invention. The pump can be attached to the hub of the wheel in less than a minute. It works on the rotary-pump principle, each revolution of the wheel, while running the car, driving air into the tire.

In putting up tall buildings, contractors have had a problem in boring holes in steel beams wherein to place the rivets, those little bands of steel that are vital to the erection of skyscrapers. By putting a trained army of drillers at work, the contractor has been able to drill correctly probably five hundred holes a day. A new machine, invented by a Los Angeles man, has demonstrated that it can bore thirty perfect holes in two and one-half minutes, requiring in the operation the services of one man and a dynamo generating sixteen and one-half horse power. This boring is done in a steel beam three inches thick. The gang drill, as it is called, can also be used on iron pipes. It is said that one man using the machine can do the work of ten, not only cheaper, but more accurately.

Frank Merriwell, Jr. at Fardale

From the Leaves of Frank Merriwell’s Notebook.

SYNOPSIS OF PRECEDING CHAPTERS

CHIP MERRIWELL and his friends fall out with Kadir Dhin, a Hindu student at Fardale, whom Colonel Gunn brought from abroad. Chip trails him as he sneaks out of the barracks at night, and thwarts an attempt to abduct Rose Maitland, whose father, an English officer from India, was murdered in France, from the home of Colonel Gunn. The colonel tells Chip, in a veiled way, that the man who murdered Rose’s father did it because he and his daughter violated a religious sanctuary, and that her father’s fate is planned for Rose. Chip and his friends shadow Kadir Dhin, and look for mysterious strangers, at Gunn’s request. On Christmas Eve Rose is missing, and Clancy and Kess, unable to find Chip, go to the railroad station, and see Bully Carson tip the baggageman as a curious-looking trunk is put on the train. Clan and Kess board the train, and the trunk is put off at Carsonville, where they discover that it has been occupied by the unconscious form of Chip.