THE FIRST HALF OF THE RACE.

Motor Matt had made up his mind, before starting, that he would take the first round steadily and easily. Elimination would be going on steadily, and it was just as well to see what was going to happen before taking the long chances.

The morning was bright and sunny. There was not a cloud in the sky. A gentle breeze fanned the course and dissipated the dust raised by the cars.

And there was plenty of dust! It circled, and eddied, and rolled, outlining the course as far as the eye could see.

At the difficult turn leading into the river road, Matt passed Patsy Grier's overturned car. Grier had failed to negotiate the turn and had gone into the ditch. Grier himself seemed to have escaped without injury, but he was busily bandaging his mechanic's arm.

The river road was an exceedingly difficult part of the circuit. The timber kept the wind from dissipating the dust, and it spread out like a fog. Matt could hear cars ahead and behind, but he could not see them. Intuition, rather than anything else, carried him safely by two of the touring-cars, one of which was suffering from tire-trouble.

Mings, in the Stark-Frisbie, and Balt Finn, in the Bly-Lambert, were both ahead of Matt, and he thought only of getting past them. He was not intending, however, to do much more than hold his own against the better cars during the first round.

The motor was pulling magnificently. Matt, his heart leaping with the joy of the sport, opened the machine out a little more on the fine road from the river to Le Loup.

He passed several more cars, but not Mings', or Finn's. The climb to Coal Run was splendidly made. Between that village and the track he shot past the little "40," smashed into a scrap-heap, and with driver and mechanic standing hopelessly by. Something must have gone wrong with the "40's" steering-gear, for it had left the road and smashed into a big boulder.

All the cars had got well away before Matt came plunging along the track in front of the grand stand. The first round had taken him exactly fifty-eight minutes.

There were only two cars ahead of him—those driven by Mings and Finn.

"Bravo, Matt!" the young motorist heard Trueman shout, high over the ripple of cheering as he dashed past; "only two ahead and you're——"

What the last of it was Matt could not hear. For this second round he was going to cram on all the speed he could. His one idea was to pass Mings and Finn.

The No. 13 was holding up under the strain in fine shape. Nothing had gone wrong with either car or motor.

Chub had strapped himself to his seat. He was busying himself with the lubrication and the fuel supply, keeping tab on everything that was purely mechanical so that Matt would have nothing to do but drive.

Both chums had a deep curiosity to learn what had befallen each other; but that was a time when personal considerations of every nature were of minor importance. Nothing was thought of but the race; every faculty was centered upon the question of speed, and more speed, and then a little more.

The passing of Finn, on the beautiful sweep of road between the river and Le Loup, was an exciting event. In every way possible Finn sought to block the road; yet steadily, persistently, Matt crept alongside the Bly-Lambert car, swung into the lead and hurled through Le Loup.

In the distance, well up the slope toward Coal Run, Matt and Chub could see the moving dust kicked up by Mings' car.

With teeth set and eyes flashing behind his goggles, Matt hurled the No. 13 at the hill. The car jumped up the ascent with incredible speed.

Swiftly, surely, Mings was being overhauled. The spectators in the grand stand had an excellent view of the sharp little scrimmage which put Matt in the lead. The No. 13 appeared to leap alongside the No. 1 car, both drivers turning the very last ounce of power into their cylinders. For the space of a breath it seemed as though the wheels of the two cars would lock. As they rushed around the curve in the track, Matt swung ahead and took the inside course.

The roar from the crowd was tremendous. But Matt was not thinking of that. He was in the lead, now, and his one idea was to keep it.

Mings had left the starting-tape twenty-four minutes ahead of him, and if Matt had come over the last lap a fraction less than that behind Mings, the race would still have gone to the Jarrot people.

There were still cars on the course, and Matt began meeting and passing those that had left behind him.

"Overhaul Sercomb! Pass Sercomb!"

These were the first words Chub had spoken since the beginning of the race.

It was a startling feat he suggested, that of traveling clear around the circuit and overtaking Sercomb—an impossible feat, Matt thought, but the impossible is not always a thing to be scoffed at so much as to be striven for.

But troubles were in store for Matt. They began close to Le Loup when Matt found that his governor was not working. Every time he took the clutch out the engine raced, making everything terribly hot, and also making it necessary before changing speed to choke down the motor by the ignition.

A halt was necessary, and Chub let off a groan as Matt slowed down and they got busy repairing the machine. Two cars swept past, while they were tinkering. Both were Stark-Frisbie cars, one, of course, driven by Mings, and the other by Sercomb.

"Instead of our overtaking Sercomb, Chub," said Matt grimly, "it's the other way around. He's overcome the lead we had of him and has passed us."

"If the governor works now, pard," replied Chub, leaping into the car, "we'll make up for lost time. Push ahead!"

The governor worked as usual, and Matt began reaching out to regain what he had lost. He flew past Sercomb, and had another struggle with Mings on the track.

Those in the grand stand knew that some accident must have happened, or Matt would never have lost the lead he had gained in the previous round.

Trueman was beginning to feel disheartened. The No. 13 was beginning to "act up," and there was no telling what would happen, or where the disasters would stop.

In Le Loup, Trueman had placed a supply of gasoline. Matt halted to replenish his tank. Sercomb passed, but Mings, for some reason, did not show up.

Shortly after leaving Le Loup the governor went wrong again.

"Don't stop, Matt!" counseled Chub; "we can't waste any more time. I'll switch off at the corners and see if that won't help."

Chub, by switching off at the corners and then switching on again when they got round, enabled Matt to take the turns with the clutch out. For some time they kept up this rough method of driving, and, while engaged in it, they got by Sercomb again.

The Stark-Frisbie machine was at a standstill, and Sercomb and his mechanic were working like beavers.

"Oh, I don't know, pard," laughed Chub. "There's others. I wonder what's become of Mings?"

"Perhaps he's had an accident. We can tell on the next round."

"If we don't have anything worse than what we've got already to buck against, we'll do well enough. I'm satisfied that——"

Just then a very serious accident happened. They were taking the corner that led to the track, clutch out and switch off; the switch went on a fraction of a second too soon, and as the engine, racing tremendously, was dropped into gear on the third speed, there was a loud crash in the gear-box.

"Jumpin' horned-toads!" yelled Chub; "what's was that, Matt?"

"Our third speed's gone," Matt answered. "It's first, second, fourth, second, first from now on."

"That means we're out of it," growled Chub gloomily.

"I don't know about that," answered Matt. "The race seems to be between us, Sercomb, and Mings. We'll hang on and do our best. Maybe Mings is out of it—he's lagging terribly, even if he isn't—and we know Sercomb is having troubles."

As the No. 13 rushed past the grand stand amid the cheers of the people, Trueman could see that something was wrong; but he was feeling more hopeful. Matt was in the lead and if he could keep it and fight down the mishaps that assailed him, there was still a chance that he would hold the lead and win.

As if the troubles Matt had had were not enough, on the road toward the river the motor began to misfire. Having to run on three cylinders instead of four diminished the speed materially, and Chub groaned in his discouragement.

"Don't take it so hard, Chub," said Matt. "Be jeerful, as Carl says. There's Mings' car piled up against a tree."

As they dashed past along the river road they saw the No. 1 smashed badly, and Mings and his mechanic limping around the wreck in extreme dejection.

Miles farther around the circuit they came upon Sercomb. He and his assistant had just finished their repairs and were starting on again.

Matt and Chub had made the complete round of the track and had overhauled Sercomb, but Sercomb was now bidding fair to recover lost ground and take the race from the crippled Jarrot car.

"Did you ever see such measly luck?" growled Chub.