WELL WON, KING!

The narrowing down of the contestants in the race had brought the interest of the onlookers to a focal point. The excitement everywhere was intense.

Carl Pretzel had not seen Motor Matt when he reached the track and took his place in the car, but, from a point in the grand stand he had recognized him when the car leaped away.

For a while the Dutch boy was dazed and dumfounded. Could he believe his eyes? Was that Motor Matt in the car, going over the course with Chub?

For almost an hour Carl kept his post in the grand stand, waiting for No. 13 to come around, so he could give closer attention to the driver and make sure it was Matt.

He made certain; there could be no doubting the evidence of his senses; Motor Matt was really driving the Jarrot car.

But where had he come from? And what was Sercomb doing in the race? Carl had been told that Sercomb was to be arrested and taken out of the contest, and he was wondering why this had not been done.

In a highly excited condition, Carl left the grand stand and went hunting for Mr. Trueman. He found him in a place reserved for the representatives of firms who had machines in the race.

"Misder Drooman," demanded Carl, "vat has peen going on, hey? I see dot Modor Matt iss in der car. How it come aboudt? Vas I treaming, oder vas it somepody vat looks like Matt und don'd vas him?"

"It's Motor Matt, all right, Carl," replied Trueman.

"Vere he come from?"

"Give it up. He blew in here just in time to take the car out for the start. He didn't have a chance to explain a thing."

"Ach, I feel so habby as I don'd know! Matt vas pack, some more, und he iss racing like vat he used to. Dere ain'd nodding wrong mit him."

"He's the best driver in the race, bar none," declared Trueman.

Plympton, who was watching events closely, overheard the remark and turned around.

"I agree with you, Trueman," said he heartily; "Motor Matt's a wonder. And to think, by gad, that this is his first race!"

Probably Colonel Plympton was sorry, then, that he had not secured Motor Matt's services for the Stark-Frisbie people while he had the chance.

"I t'ought dot Sercomb feller vas nod going to be in der race," went on Carl, taking particular pains to let Plympton hear the remark. "He iss a sgoundrel, und nodding vould haf habbened to Matt oof it hatn't peen for him."

"I told Matt I was going to have Sercomb arrested and taken out of the contest, Carl," explained Trueman, "but Matt insisted that he be allowed to stay in the race."

"By gad," said Plympton, turning again, "the boy was right! He wants to beat Sercomb, and he knows it's a whole lot better to give him every advantage. King is a game sportsman, and I take off my hat to him."

"Dot Sercomb feller vat runs der car for you, Gurnel Plympton," said Carl, "iss some pad eggs. Dere don'd vas nodding fair aboudt him. He has hat it in for Matt for a long dime, und iss der piggest fillian dot efer vas. He vill dry on somet'ing in der race yet, you vatch und see."

"You're mistaken, young man," said Plympton sharply.

"I think you are, too, Carl," spoke up Trueman. "Sercomb, no matter how much he may hate Matt, won't dare do anything crooked."

"Vy nod? Dot feller iss der vorst dot efer vas. Aroundt on der odder site oof der race course he mighdt run indo Matt, oder do somet'ing like dot."

"Beautiful, beautiful," murmured Plympton, watching Matt pass Mings a second time; "I never saw such driving as King is doing."

"He can do anyt'ing!" declared Carl, swelling up. "He iss my bard, und he iss der lucky poy. Oof Sercomb leds him alone, Matt vill vin der race. Aber I don'd t'ink Sercomb vill do dot."

For two hours longer the breathless crowd held to their places. Only Sercomb and Matt were left on the course, all the rest of the machines having given out, or their drivers having given up.

It looked like Matt's race, although it could be seen that his car was bothering him terribly. Chub was as busy as a monkey with its hand in a coconut, switching out and in with one hand, pumping oil with the other, and occasionally giving swift attention to something else. He was fairly plastered with oil and dust.

Matt had passed Sercomb, having gone completely around the circuit and caught up with him. But Sercomb's machine was again working smoothly and was going much faster than the No. 13. He passed Matt. But could he get around the track completely and then cross the finish-line with a margin to his credit?

If everything held up, it looked as though he would be able to win.

How the crowd in the grand stand watched that gap in the fence, beyond the paddock, for a glimpse of Sercomb rushing over the course to make up his opponent's lead!

Trueman and Plympton were consulting their watches nervously.

"Something's gone wrong with Sercomb," muttered Plympton. "At the rate he was going when he passed here, on the other round, he ought to have been back before this."

"The accidents can't all happen to one car," said Trueman.

"That's so; but Stark-Frisbie usually put out dependable cars. King has been having trouble with your racer almost from the start."

"It's the finish of the race that tells the story," returned Trueman.

"This will be the first race the Jarrot people ever won—providing you win it."

"It's the biggest race, at that. Even if we don't win, it's something to beat the Bly-Lambert people. We've thrown dust in the faces of the cup-holders, anyhow."

Tales of accident on the course had been drifting in, and some of the drivers of the wrecked and disabled cars had got back to the Park.

As by a miracle, no one had been killed, it seemed, or even dangerously hurt.

"Ah!" shouted Colonel Plympton, his eyes on the gap in the fence on the other side of the track, "here comes Sercomb now!"

A flurry of dust was shooting through the break in the fence and turning into the track for the home-stretch. For a space the thick blanket of dust shrouded the car and it was impossible to tell whose car it was.

"Don't be too sure that it's Sercomb," cautioned Trueman excitedly. "I've got money that says it's King."

"Done for a hundred!" returned Plympton promptly. "If it isn't Sercomb, I owe you the money."

Just then the wind whipped aside the dust and a most astonishing sight presented itself.

The dust was raised by both cars, for Matt and Sercomb were rounding the track almost side by side.

Strangely enough, the third cylinder of the No. 13 had stopped its rebellion. Dropping in line with the others, it had taken up its rhythmical action and was doing its full part.

Of course, the race was Matt's. He was the full course, nearly, ahead of Sercomb. Even if the No. 13 stood still, the race would still be Matt's. Why, then, was Sercomb continuing the hopeless fight?

Around the course came the two cars, Matt keeping the lead by two or three feet. As the two machines, one white and the other red, raced toward the finish-line, the crowd grew nearly frantic.

Rising in their seats the people yelled until they were hoarse; men threw up their hats, and women fluttered their handkerchiefs.

Then suddenly the wild cheering died as if by magic. Sercomb, perhaps carried away by the heat of the contest, had given his steering-wheel into the charge of his mechanic, a red-haired Irishman, and was leaning far over toward the other car.

Sercomb had a wrench in his hand, and his purpose, as could clearly be seen, was to strike Matt with the heavy instrument.

The crowd caught its breath.

"I toldt you, I toldt you!" Carl was muttering to himself as his frenzied eyes watched the grim little affair as it went forward.

Matt, busy with his driving, could not see the danger that threatened him; but not so with the lad at his side. Chub, facing backward in his seat, made a quick move outward and sideways.

The wrench, at that moment, was on the point of falling.

Chub caught the murderous hand just in the nick of time to save Motor Matt.

For a moment Sercomb and Chub struggled as the cars raced. Then the wrench fell, Sercomb slipped back into his seat, and Matt cut off the power and slowed down to a halt.

A great gasp of relief went up from the crowd, followed by a perfect roar of cheers. While Sercomb and his Irish mechanic raced onward, the crowd poured out of the grand stand and over the fences to rush upon the victor and congratulate him.