THE FINISH.

The doctor's guess was a good one. The excitement of that race was exactly what Motor Matt needed. It was a tonic, and from the moment he had entered the Sprite in the Yahara Club boathouse, he was the Mile-a-Minute Matt of motor cycle and automobile days. His nerves were like steel wires, his brain was steady, and his eye keen and true.

There was a good deal of vibration—much more, in fact, than Matt had really thought there would be. The more power used up in vibration, the less power delivered at the wheel. But what would the vibration have been if he had not exercised so much care in preparing the engine's bed?

Perfectly oblivious of the spectators, and with eyes only for his course, Matt saw nothing and no one apart from the boundary buoys, until he turned the Sprite for the start. Then, while waiting for the starting gun, he caught a glimpse of the taunting face of Ollie Merton.

"Fooled you, eh?" called Merton. "You'll do sixteen miles, at your best, and we'll go over twenty."

Motor Matt did not reply. If Merton had only known what was under the hood of the Sprite, his gibe would never have been uttered.

As they passed the stake boat side by side, Merton and Halloran began to suspect something. The Sprite hung to them too persistently for a sixteen-mile-an-hour boat.

"He's got something in that boat of his," breathed Halloran, "that we don't know anything about."

"Confound him!" snorted Merton, enraged at the very suspicion. "If he fools us with any of his low-down tricks, I'll fix him before he leaves that made-over catamaran of his."

"You'll treat him white, Merton, win or lose," scowled Halloran.

"Then you see to it that you win!" said Merton.

Along the double line of boats rushed the racers. The waves tossed up from the bows rose high, creamed into froth, and the spray drifted and eddied around Matt, Halloran, and Merton. At the edge of the lane, the craft of the sightseers rocked with the heave the flying boats kicked up.

Halfway between the stake boats the Dart began to draw ahead. A shout of exultation went up from Merton.

"Good boy, Halloran! In another minute we'll show him our heels."

But what Matt lost on the outward stretch of the course he more than made up at the turn around the stake boat. The shorter length of the Sprite enabled her to be brought around with more facility, and she came to on the inner side and was reaching for the home-stretch when the Dart got pointed for the straight-away.

The hum of the engine was like a crooning song of victory in Matt's ears. He knew he was going to win; he felt it in his bones.

Halloran's juggling with gasoline and spark brought the Dart slowly alongside and gave her the lead by half a length.

But still Matt did not waver. He could juggle a little with the make-and-break ignition and the fuel supply himself. His brain was full of calculations. He knew where he was at every minute of the race, and he knew just when to begin making the throbbing motor spin the wheel at its maximum.

The rack of the hull was tremendous. It seemed to grow instead of to lessen.

Would the hull stand the strain with the engine urging the wheel at its best?

It must stand the strain! The crisis was at hand and there was nothing else for it.

Hugging the steering wheel with his body, Matt's left hand toyed with switch and lever. The yacht at the finish line was in plain view.

Matt did not see the waving hats or fluttering handkerchiefs, nor did he hear the bedlam of yells that went up on every side. All he saw was the Dart, his eye marking the gain of the Sprite.

It was already apparent to Ollie Merton and Halloran that the race was lost—unless something unexpected happened to Motor Matt or the Sprite.

Halloran was getting the last particle of speed out of the Dart's engine, and steadily, relentlessly, the Sprite was creeping ahead.

Deep down in Merton's soul a desperate purpose was fighting with his better nature. Suddenly the evil got the upper hand. Merton waited, his sinister face full of relentless determination.

"When the Sprite takes the lead," he said to himself, "something is going to happen."

In one minute more Matt forged ahead. The finish line was close now, and Merton was already stung with the bitterness of defeat.

His hand reached inside his sweater. When it was withdrawn, a revolver came with it.

Why Merton had brought that revolver with him, he alone could tell. It may have been for some such purpose as this.

Matt's back was toward Merton, and Matt's eyes were peering steadily ahead.

If that left hand could be touched—just scratched—the king of the motor boys would be powerless to manage the Sprite.

Many of the spectators saw the leveling of the weapon. Cries of "Coward!" and "Shame!" and "Stop him!" went up from a hundred throats.

Mr. Merton, watching breathlessly, saw the glimmering revolver, and something very like a sob rushed through his lips as he bowed his head. What those who saw felt for his son, he felt for him—and for himself.

Before Merton could press the trigger, Halloran turned partly around.

"You're mad!" shouted Halloran, gripping Merton's wrist with a deft hand and shoving the point of the revolver high in the air.

Unaware of his narrow escape, the king of the motor boys flung the Sprite onward to victory.

A good half-length ahead of the Dart, Matt and his boat crossed the finish line—regaining the De Lancey cup for the Yahara Club, winning the race for George Lorry and gaining untold honors for himself.

The lake went wild; and the enthusiasm spilled over its edges and ran riot along the shores. Steam launches tooted their sirens, and motor boats emptied their compressed air tanks through their toy whistles; the band played, but there was so much other noise that it was not heard. The Yaharas and their partisans went wild.

Somewhere in that jumble of humanity was Newt Higgins, adding his joyful clamor to the roar of delight; and somewhere, also, was the doctor, letting off the steam of his pent-up excitement.

But there was one man on the stake boat whose heart was heavy, who had no word for any one but his wife. To her he offered his arm.

"Come," said he, in a stifled voice, "this is no place for us. Let us go."

Matt, as soon as he had checked the speed of the Sprite and pointed her the other way, jogged back along the line of boats and picked Lorry and McGlory off one of the launches.

Lorry was radiant.

"You've done it, old boy!" he cried. "By Jupiter! you've done it. You sit down and take it easy—I'll look after the Sprite!"

"Speak to me about this!" whooped McGlory, throwing his arms around Matt in a bear's hug. "Oh, recite this to me, in years to come, and the blood will bound through my veins with all the—er—the—— Hang it, pard, you know what I mean! I've gone off the jump entirely. Hooray for Motor Matt!"

As Lorry laid the Sprite alongside the stake boat, somebody tossed her a line.

"Come aboard, all of you," called a voice.

It was Spicer, commodore of the Yahara Club.

While Matt, Lorry, and McGlory were going up one side of the yacht, Mr. and Mrs. Merton were descending the other, getting into the boat that was to take them ashore to their waiting automobile.

Mr. Lorry, red as a beet, his collar wilted, his high hat on the back of his head, and his necktie around under his ear, met the victors, giving one hand to Matt and the other to George.

"Jove!" he said huskily, "I've yelled myself hoarse. Oh, but it was fine!"

Ethel threw her arms around Matt's neck and gave him a hearty kiss.

"Nice way to treat a one-armed fellow that can't defend himself," whooped McGlory; "and sick, at that. He ought to be in bed, this minute—the doctor said so!"

"I—I thought it was George," faltered Ethel.

"Oh, bang!" howled McGlory. "It's a wonder you didn't think it was me."

The vice commodore of the Winnequa Club came forward, carrying the silver cup in both hands. He looked sad enough, but he was game.

In a neat little speech, during which he emphasized the sportsman-like conduct which should prevail at all such events as the one that had just passed, he tendered the cup to Lorry. Lorry, blushing with pleasure, in turn tendered it to the commodore of the Yahara Club.

One of the judges, coming forward with an oblong slip of paper in his hands, waved it to command silence. When a measure of quiet prevailed, he eased himself of a few pertinent remarks.

"Gentlemen, there was another supplementary prize offered in this contest. Unlike the De Lancey cup, which may be fought for again next year, this additional prize inheres to the victor for so long as he can keep it by him. It is not for the owner of the boat, but to the gallant youth who presided at the steering wheel and bore the brunt of the battle. Had the Dart won, this extra prize would have gone to Halloran, just as surely as it now goes to Motor Matt. It consists of a check for two thousand dollars, place for the name blank, and signed by Mr. Daniel Lorry. There you are, son," and the judge pushed the check into the hand of the astounded Matt.

"Great spark-plugs!" exclaimed Matt. "I—I—— Well, I hardly know what to say. I was in the game for the love of it, and—and I was not expecting this!"

"That was dad's idea," said Ethel happily.

"Bully for the governor!" cried George, grabbing his father's hand. "Why, I didn't know anything about this, myself."

"It was a 'dark horse,'" chuckled Mr. Lorry. "Come on, now, and let's go home and get out of this hubbub. Matt, you and McGlory will come with us. We're going to have a spread."