JOE’S FIRST RACE.
Several who were riding close by saw Joe strike Akers.
As for Lemuel himself, he was so astonished that for the moment he
could scarcely speak.
“What do you mean by that?” he managed to gasp at last.
He had half-leaped, half-tumbled from his machine, and now he strode up
to Joe, his face dark with passion.
“I mean a good deal,” retorted Joe, and he leaped down in front of
Akers.
“What’s the row, Joe?”
“What did you strike Akers for?”
“It’s against the rules to scrap on the grounds.”
“He called me a jailbird, boys, and I won’t take that from any one,
rules or no rules.”
“For shame, Akers!”
“Joe hasn’t been proved guilty yet.”
“And he isn’t guilty, to my way of thinking.”
Nearly all of the boys sided with Joe.
“Humph, evidently you are all with him, and I’ve got no rights here,”
growled Lemuel Akers.
“You have certainly no right to call him a jailbird,” returned the
manager of the races warmly. “I don’t blame Joe for slapping you in the
mouth.”
“I’ll fix him for it!” grumbled Lemuel, but instead of advancing upon
Joe, who stood on guard and ready to administer a good thrashing to the
bully, he backed away, mounted his wheel, and rode off to another part
of the grounds.
After that Akers was knowing enough to keep out of Joe’s way until the
two-mile race came off.
There was that in Joe’s eye that warned him to beware, and, as we have
said before, he was a coward at heart.
The two-mile race was the last of all.
A big crowd had assembled, for several valuable prizes were to be given
to the winners of the first and second place.
The boys lined up in good form.
“All ready?”
There was no answer.
Bang!
Off went the pistol, and off went the racers. It was a splendid start.
The track was a quarter of a mile around, so the boys had to cover
eight laps in order to make the two miles.
At the first lap one of the Elmwood boys was in the lead, with Lemuel
Akers second, and another boy third.
The second lap was the same, excepting that Lemuel was crowding the
leader pretty closely.
“Akers is going to win that race!”
“I’ll bet on Donnelly!”
On the third lap Joe dropped to fourth place.
“Wake up, Joe!” shouted Dick Burns. “Wake up!”
Joe paid no attention to this remark, but kept his eyes straight ahead.
On the next lap there was a bunch up among the three last riders, and
two went down, with the third over them.
Friends helped the unfortunates off the track, just in time to avoid a
collision with the leaders on the next lap.
Around and around went the remaining riders until the last lap was on.
Lemuel Akers was leading, Donnelly second, and Joe third.
“Go it, Akers!”
“Catch him, Donnelly!”
“Go, Joe, go!”
The last cry was from Dick Burns’ sister, and it seemed to put new life
into our hero.
Away he went like a flash. It was an extraordinary spurt, and told only
too well what was in Joe’s make-up as a bicyclist.
They were on the home stretch.
Donnelly was also spurting.
In vain Lemuel Akers tried to maintain his lead.
Donnelly crept up inch by inch and finally passed him.
“It’s Donnelly’s race!”
“I told you he could beat Akers.”
But now the crowd suddenly held its breath.
Like a meteor Joe was coming up.
Nothing could stop him.
With flashing wheels he rushed by Akers.
Donnelly was but a yard ahead.
And the tape but ten yards distant.
Donnelly did his best, but in vain.
“Joe Johnson has won!”
It was true, for our hero had come over the tape just one foot ahead of
Donnelly.
The crowd went wild and shouted itself hoarse. The Lockport boys rushed
to Joe, hauled him from his wheel, and marched around the track with
their hero on their shoulders.
It was a great day for Joe, and one that he never forgot.
Dick Burns was almost as much pleased as our hero.
“I knew you could do it, Joe,” he said. “One of these days you will be
a leading racer, mark my words.”
And Dick’s sister also praised Joe.
Lemuel Akers was much taken down by Joe’s victory. As soon as he could
he left the race track grounds and started off for a little village
called Bailey’s, two miles to the west.
Here Akers spent a good two hours at the tavern.
He was not above drinking, and now he took just enough to make him
thoroughly ugly.
“I’ll fix him yet,” muttered Lemuel to himself. “He shan’t ride it over
me.”
Lemuel felt doubly chagrined because Dick Burns’ sister no longer
noticed him.
It was not until evening that Akers started to return to Lockport.
In the meanwhile Joe had returned home and had supper.
Our hero felt rather wakeful after his hard ride, and thought a quiet
spin on his wheel just before going to bed would do him good.
So he went off alone, a crowd of boys cheering him as he passed out of
sight.
He was a hero, and for the time being, at least, the fact that he was
under suspicion was forgotten.
Joe pedaled along for about a mile very slowly. Then he came to a part
of the road which was fringed with blackberry bushes. The ripe fruit
looked so tempting that he dismounted, and, setting his machine against
a tree, began to gather some to eat. While he was doing this Lemuel
Akers came along.
“Hullo! what are you doing there?” he demanded.
“None of your business,” replied Joe sharply. He had not forgotten
Lemuel’s insult at the race track.
“Don’t you know this is my uncle’s land?” went on the big boy.
“It’s not fenced in, and any one has a right to pick these berries
along the road,” responded our hero.
“You have no right, and I want you to skip!” roared Akers savagely.
And then, as he rode close to Joe, he struck our hero with a stout
stick he carried.
“That’s for hitting me at the race track,” he cried, and wheeled off at
top speed.
Joe was somewhat stunned by the blow from the stick. He staggered into
the bushes, and in consequence one hand was scratched in several places.
But he quickly recovered, and, mounting his wheel, rode after Akers.
Finding himself pursued, the bully pedaled along at top speed down a
side road. At first it looked as if he would get away from Joe, but
just as the foot of a long hill was reached, our hero caught up beside
him.
“Stop, Akers, or I’ll knock you off of your machine!” cried Joe.
“Don’t you dare to touch me!” screamed Akers.
He tried to go on, and, seeing this, Joe gave him a shove, which hurled
the rascal to the ground.
Lemuel went down on his bicycle, half a dozen spokes of which were
badly bent in the fall. When he arose he found Joe also on the ground,
but on his feet.
“Now, see what you have done, you jailbird,” he cried.
“Take back those words, Lemuel Akers!” exclaimed Joe. “I warned you
before, and I won’t warn you again.”
“I won’t take ’em back,” howled the big boy. “You are a jailbird and a
thief, and every one----”
Lemuel went no further.
Joe’s right fist shot out like lightning. The big boy was caught fairly
on the chin, and over he went flat on his back in the dirt of the road.