THE RACE—THE START.

The Winnequa-Yahara race was open to all boats of the respective clubs under forty feet, each boat with a beam one-fifth the water-line length. It was to be a five-mile contest, each end of the course marked by a stake boat anchored at each end of Fourth Lake. The stake boat, with the judges, was to be moored off Maple Bluff. From this boat the racers would start, round the other stake boat, and finish at the starting point.

Furthermore, although the race was open to all members of the two respective clubs with boats under the extreme length, there was a mutual agreement, from the beginning, that one member of each club should be commissioned to provide the boat to be entered in the contest. Inasmuch as a speed boat costs money, it was natural that the sons of rich men should be told off to carry the honors.

Mr. Merton and Mr. Lorry were both millionaires. They were known to be indulgent fathers, and it had not been foreseen that Mr. Lorry would rebel, at first, against George's extravagance.

But George had gone too far. Mr. Lorry, even at that, might have paid for George's $5,000 hydroplane had he understood that his son was bearing the Yahara honors on his own shoulders and had been lured into extravagance by a misguided notion of his responsibility.

However, this initial misunderstanding, with all its disastrous entanglements, was a thing of the past. Both Mr. Lorry and George had buried it deep, and were meeting each other in a closer relationship than they had ever known before.

The struggle for the De Lancey cup had become, to Madison, what the fight for the America Cup had become to the United States. Only, in the case of the De Lancey cup, the city was divided against itself.

The entire population had ranged itself on one side or the other.

The gun that started the race was to be fired at 2 o'clock, but early in the forenoon launches began passing through the chain of lakes, and through the canal and locks that led to the scene of the contest.

The distance had already been measured and the stake boats placed. All along the course buoys marked the boundaries. Later there were to be police boats, darting here and there to see that the boundary line was respected and the course kept clear. Through this lane of water, hemmed in by craft of every description, the two boats were to speed to victory or defeat.

Observers, however, did not confine themselves to the boats. The cottages on Maple Bluff, and the surrounding heights, offered splendid vantage ground for sightseers. Early in the forenoon automobiles began moving out toward Maple Bluff, loaded with passengers. And each automobile carried a hamper with lunch for those who traveled with it. Most of the citizens made of the event a picnic affair.

The asylum grounds also held their quota of sightseers with opera glasses or more powerful binoculars; and Governor's Island, and the shore all the way around to Picnic Point.

The day was perfect. Fortunately for the many craft assembled, the wind was light, and what little there was was not from the west. Fourth Lake was to be as calm as a pond.

Steadily, up to 1 o'clock, the throng of sightseers afloat and ashore was added to.

The sixty-five-foot motor yacht, serving as stake boat at the starting and finishing point, was boarded by Mr. Lorry and Ethel. The judges were from both clubs, and so the boat was given over to the use of a limited number of Winnequas and Yaharas and their partisans.

As Mr. Lorry and Ethel came over the side of the yacht they were greeted by a tall, gray-haired man and a stout, middle-aged lady.

"Why, Merton!" exclaimed Mr. Lorry. "You had to get back in time for the race, eh? Madam," and he doffed his hat to the lady at Merton's side, "I trust I find you well?"

"Very well, thank you, Mr. Lorry," replied Mrs. Merton. "How are you, my dear?" and the lady turned and gave her hand to Ethel.

"There's where they start and finish, Lorry," said Mr. Merton, pointing to the port side of the boat. "Bring up chairs and we'll preËmpt our places now."

When the four were all comfortably seated, a certain embarrassment born of the fact that each man was there to watch the performance of his son's boat crept into their talk.

"Will George be in his boat?" inquired Mr. Merton, taking a glance around at the gay bunting with which the assembled craft were dressed.

"No," said Mr. Lorry.

"Ollie will be in his launch," and there was ever so small a taunt in the words.

"Ollie's boat is bigger than George's, Merton," answered the other mildly. "George's driver figured that an extra hundred-and-forty pounds had better stay out of the Sprite."

"Who drives for George?"

"Motor Matt."

Mr. Merton was startled.

"Why," said he, "I thought he was hurt in that boathouse fire and couldn't be out of bed?"

"He's hurt, and only one-handed, but he's too plucky to stay out of the race."

"Probably," said Mr. Merton coolly, "the pay he receives is quite an item. I understand Motor Matt is poor, and out for all the money he can get."

"You have been wrongly informed, Merton. Not a word as to what he shall receive has passed between George and Motor Matt. The boys are friends."

"I'd be a little careful, if I were you, how I allowed my son to pick up with a needy adventurer."

"Motor Matt is neither needy nor an adventurer," said Mr. Lorry warmly. "I'm proud to have George on intimate terms with him."

"Oh, well," laughed Mr. Merton; "have a cigar."

Ethel was having a conversation along similar lines with Mrs. Merton, and she was as staunchly upholding Motor Matt as was her father. So earnestly did the girl speak that the elder lady drew back and eyed her through a lorgnette.

"Careful, my dear," said she.

Ethel knew what she meant, and flushed with temper. But both Ethel and her father, deep down in their hearts, pitied Mr. and Mrs. Merton. If they had known of the unscrupulous attack their son had caused to be made on Motor Matt, they would perhaps have spoken differently—or not at all.

Fortunately, it may be, for the four comprising the little party, a band on a near-by cruising boat began to play.

Then, a moment later, a din of cheers rolled over the lake.

"There's Ollie!" cried Mrs. Merton, starting up excitedly to flutter her handkerchief.

Yes, the Dart was coming down the open lane, having entered the course from the boathouse, where she had been lying ever since early morning. She was a 25-foot boat, with trim racing lines, and she shot through the water in a way that left no doubt of her speed.

"How's that?" cried Mr. Merton, nudging Mr. Lorry with his elbow. "Nearly everybody was expecting the Wyandotte, and just look what we're springing on you!"

"She looks pretty good," acknowledged Mr. Lorry.

"Well, I should say so!"

"But not good enough," went on Mr. Lorry.

"Have you got five thousand that thinks the same way?"

"No, Merton. I quit betting a good many years ago."

The Dart raced up and down the course, showing what she could do in short stretches, but not going over the line for a record. Halloran, the red-haired driver of the Dart, and Ollie Merton were fine-looking young fellows in their white yachting caps, white flannel shirts, and white duck trousers.

From time to time Mr. Lorry consulted his watch, checking off the quarter hours impatiently and wondering why Motor Matt and the Sprite did not put in an appearance. Could it be possible that Matt had not been able to leave the house on Yankee Hill, after all? If he was able to be out, then why didn't he come along and give the Sprite a little warming up?

The boat had not had an actual try-out since the changes had been made in her.

Mr. Lorry did not realize that it was too late, then, for a try-out; nor did he know that Matt was saving himself for the contest, and not intending to reach the course much before the time arrived for the starting gun to be fired.

Five minutes before two a little saluting gun barked sharply from the forward deck of the stake boat.

"I guess your boat isn't coming, Lorry," said Mr. Merton. "There's only five minutes left for——"

The words were taken out of his mouth by a roaring cheer from down the line of boats. The cheer was caught up and repeated from boat to boat until the whole surface of the lake seemed to echo back the frantic yells.

Mr. Lorry leaped to his feet and waved his hat, while Ethel sprang up in her chair and excitedly shook her veil.

For the Sprite was coming!

Motor Matt, a little pale and carrying his right arm in a sling, came jogging down the wide lane toward the stake boat. There was a resolute light in his keen, gray eyes, and his trained left hand performed its many duties unerringly.

The danger from which Matt had plucked the Sprite at the burning boathouse was known far and wide, and it was his gameness in entering the race handicapped as he was that called forth the tremendous ovation.

Dexterously he passed the stake boat and brought the Sprite slowly around for the start.

The Sprite was charred and blistered, and, as McGlory had humorously put it, the "skin was barked all off her nose," because of her collision with the water door; but there she was, fit and ready for the race of her life.

She did not compare favorably with the handsome Dart; but then, beauty is only skin deep. It's what's inside of a boat, as well as of a man, that counts.

Slowly the boats manoeuvred, waiting for the gun. The silence was intense, breathless. Then——

Bang!

The little saluting gun puffed out its vapory breath. Matt could be seen leaning against the wheel, holding it firm with his body while his left hand played over the levers.

It was a pretty start. Both the Sprite and the Dart passed the stake boat neck and neck.

"They're off," muttered Lorry, with a wheeze, drawing a handkerchief over his forehead.

It is nothing to his discredit that his hand shook a little.

"Oh, dad," whispered Ethel, clasping her father's arm, "didn't he look fine and—and determined? I know he'll win, I just know it."

"Say, Lorry," asked Mr. Merton, "who's that youngster over there on that launch—the one that's making such a fool of himself."

"That?" asked Mr. Lorry, squinting in the direction indicated. "Oh, that's my nephew, McGlory. But don't blame him for acting the fool—I feel a little inclined that way myself."