A FLYING START
The day of the race dawned bright and clear. There was just enough
breeze to temper the heat of the sun, but not enough to interfere with
the riders. There had been no rain since three days before, and the
roads, while a little dusty, were firm and fast. Everything bespoke
ideal conditions for the event that, it was hoped, would hang up new
records in one of the most modern of sports.
The three friends had left college the day before, and had taken up
their quarters at one of the hotels near the beach. They were full of
health and hope and enthusiasm. The work of the college year was over,
and they felt like colts kicking up their heels in a pasture. Dick and
Tom were looking forward to the trip across the continent and the
wonders of the great Exposition. This of itself would have been enough
to account for their exuberance, but there was the added excitement of
watching the progress of the great race, and, in a sense, taking part in
it. And, with all the optimism of youth, they did not let themselves
feel the shadow of a doubt that their comrade would come in triumphant.
And Bert, although somewhat sobered by the weight of responsibility that
rested upon him, was almost as jubilant as they. He was a born fighter,
and his spirits always rose on the eve of a contest. He was "tuned to
the hour." The muscles of his arms and legs glided like snakes beneath
the white skin, his color was good, his eyes shone, and he had never in
all his many contests felt in better physical trim.
Early in the morning, he had hurried to the garage to which the "Blue
Streak" had been consigned, and was delighted to find that it had made
the journey without a scratch. No one but himself was permitted to give
it the final grooming. He personally filled the tank, looked to the oil,
and went over every nut and bolt and valve. Then he sprang into the
saddle and took a five-mile spin around the neighboring race track. And
even his exacting criticism could find no shadow of defect. The "Blue
Streak," like its master, was in perfect condition.
"Well, old boy," said Bert, as he patted the beautiful machine, after
the test, "we're going to be pretty close companions for the next few
weeks, and you've got a big job cut out for you. But I believe you're
game for it, and if your rider is as good as you are, I won't have
anything left to ask."
As the hour drew near, a great crowd assembled to see the start.
The contest had stirred up a vast amount of interest among motor
enthusiasts, and many of the motorcycle clubs were represented by big
delegations. One or two of the entries had dropped out at the last
moment, and there were ten contestants who faced the starter. Each had
his coterie of friends and well wishers who had gathered to give him a
rousing send off. But none were greeted so uproariously as Bert, who had
a reception that "warmed the cockles of his heart." Undergraduates of
the old college flocked around him, and these were reinforced by
hundreds of alumni, living in or near the city, who scented one more
victory for the blue colors that they loved so dearly. They swarmed
about him, grasped his hand and thumped him on the back, until if he had
been in poorer condition, he would have been black and blue. It was with
difficulty that he could tear himself away from the multitude whose
enthusiasm outran their discretion. But many a day thereafter, in
loneliness and peril and the shadow of death, the memory of that
boisterous farewell was an inspiration. The last hands he clasped were
those of Tom and Dick and Reddy, whose face was as red as his hair from
excitement.
"Good luck, me bye," he called. Then in a whisper, "Ye haven't forgot
the shamrock?"
"You bet I haven't," laughed Bert, and lifting the cover of his tool
box, he showed it lying on top. Whereat, Reddy heaved a sigh of relief,
and fell back satisfied.
And now everything was ready for the start. The wheels had been dipped
in the Atlantic, whose surf curled up to meet them, as though to whisper
a message to its sister ocean. Then all the riders, standing by their
machines, were drawn up in line on the boulevard that came down almost
to the beach. The conditions of the race were read aloud and all of the
racers with uplifted hand swore to observe them. A letter from the Mayor
of New York to the Mayor of San Francisco was delivered to each
contestant. Only the one who reached there first was to deliver his.
The others would be of value as souvenirs of perhaps a gallant but
unsuccessful struggle.
Then there was a moment's silence, while the excitement grew tense. The
starter lifted his pistol and glanced along the waiting line. There came
a flash, a sharp report, and before the echoes died away the riders were
in the saddle. A tremendous roar from the exhausts made the crowd shrink
back, and it scattered as the great machines leaped forward. It was like
the bursting of a rainbow. Blue and red and black and white darted
forward in flying streaks of color, spreading out like the sticks of a
gigantic fan. Before the startled spectators could catch their breath,
the racers were vanishing from sight up the boulevard. The dash from
coast to coast had begun.
For the five mile ride along the parkway there was no need of observing
the speed regulations. The road had been kept clear of all other
vehicles, and policemen placed along the route kept the crowds to the
paths on either side. The "motor cops," who were personally interested
in that race, that involved their own pet machine, waved greetings as
they passed.
In a few minutes they had left this atmosphere of friendliness and
enthusiasm, and were getting into the stream of the city's traffic. From
now on, there was need of constant vigilance. The riders began to
separate, each steering through the street that they figured would bring
them most quickly and easily to the bridges that spanned the river. By
the time Bert had crossed the old Brooklyn Bridge, he had lost sight of
all his competitors. By different roads, from now on, they would fly
toward the common goal, so many thousand miles distant. The spectacular
features were in the past. Now each one, alone and unaided, was to "work
out his own salvation."
But there was no sinking of the heart, as Bert, after crossing the
bridge and winding through the packed streets of lower New York, stood
on the ferry boat and watched the irregular sky line of the great city.
What would happen to him before he saw it again, it was fortunate that
he could not guess. But just now, his heart beat high with the delight
of struggle and achievement. He had his chance. And he was determined to
make that chance a certainty.
He was the first one off the boat when it swung into its slip, and as
soon as he got beyond the business quarter of Jersey City, he began to
"eat up" the space across the meadows. He was flying when he reached
Newark, where he again had to let up in his pace for a few minutes. But
luck was with him and gave him an unexpected pace maker, just as he drew
into the open spaces beyond the city limits.
The broad road ran right alongside the railroad track, and just as
Bert let out a link and got into his stride, a limited express came
thundering along at a high rate of speed. The racing instinct woke in
Bert and he let his machine out until it was traveling like the wind.
For a mile or two they went along like a team, neither seeming able to
lose the other.
The passengers, gazing listlessly out of the windows, gradually woke up
to the fact that this tiny machine was actually racing with their train.
At first they were amused at the seeming impudence, but as mile after
mile passed, with the "Blue Streak" holding its own, they became
excited. The sportsman spirit that seems characteristic of America was
aroused, and all the windows on that side of the train were filled with
crowding faces. It was like a pygmy daring a giant, a tugboat
challenging the _Imperator_.
The engineer, at first looking languidly at the impertinent racer, made
no special effort to increase his speed. But when Bert hung to his flank
and refused to be shaken off, he turned and said something to his
fireman. The latter shoveled desperately, the engineer let out his
throttle, and the great train lunged forward.
But Bert, too, had something "up his sleeve." He had been keeping well
within his limit, and he knew the speed of which his gallant mount was
capable. A mile ahead he could see where the road crossed the track.
With a quick twist of the wrist, he threw in the highest speed and
had to grip his handlebars hard to keep his seat as his iron steed
responded. He flashed on ahead, fairly scorching up the road, and dashed
across the track fifty feet ahead of the onrushing locomotive. Then, as
the passengers rushed over to the other side of the cars, he waved his
cap to them, shook it defiantly at the discomfited engineer and fireman,
and disappeared around the bend of the road. Then he gradually slackened
his pace, though still maintaining a high rate of speed.
Bert was hilarious. It was his first race, so far, and he had come out
ahead. He took it as an omen.
"Some race, old scout," he confided joyously to his mount. "You
certainly lived up to your name that time." And he laughed aloud, as he
remembered the look on the faces in the cab.
The race had been a capital thing, not only for the many miles he had
covered, but because of the added confidence that had been infused into
his veins by the successful outcome. He had "ridden rings" around his
redoubtable opponent, and his heart was full of elation.
As he neared Trenton, he stopped at a garage to replenish his gasoline.
He had plenty left to finish out the stretch that he had mapped out for
that day's work, but he was taking no chances, and always felt better
when he knew that his tank was full.
A tall young fellow had preceded him on the same errand, and was just
about to mount his wheel when Bert entered. There was something familiar
about him and Bert cudgeled his brains to remember where he had met him.
The stranger seemed equally puzzled. Then a sudden gleam of memory
lighted up his face, and he came toward Bert with outstretched hand.
"Beg pardon," he said. "But isn't your name Wilson--Bert Wilson, the
college pitcher?"
"Yes," answered Bert, taking the hand held out to him, "and you--sure I
know," he exclaimed, as recognition flashed upon him--"you're Gunther of
the Maroons. I couldn't place you for a minute."
"You placed me all right in that last game, when you struck me out in
the ninth inning," grinned Gunther. "Do you remember?"
Did Bert remember? Could he ever forget? Again the scene came before
him as though it were yesterday. He saw the diamond gleaming in the
afternoon sun, the stands packed with twenty-five thousand howling
maniacs. It was the final game of the season, and the pennant hung upon
the outcome. Two men were out when Gunther came to the bat. He was the
heaviest slugger of the league, and the home crowd was begging him to
"kill the ball." Bert had outguessed him on the first strike, and
snapped one over by surprise on the second. Then, on the third, he had
cut loose that mighty "fadeaway" of his. For forty feet it had gone on a
line--hesitated--swerved sharply down and in, and, evading Gunther's
despairing swing, plumped into the catcher's mitt. And the howl that
went up--and the mighty swoop of the fellows on the field--and the wild
enthusiasm over Bert--and the bonfires--and the snake dances! Did he
remember?
"You certainly had me buffaloed that day, all right," went on Gunther.
"It isn't often that I hit a foot above a ball, but that fadeaway of
yours had me going. I simply couldn't gauge it. It's a teaser, for
fair. You were the whole team that day."
"We had the luck, that's all," protested Bert. "The breaks of the game
were with us."
"It wasn't luck," said Gunther, generously; "you simply outplayed us.
But we did make you work to win," he added, with a reminiscent smile.
By this time, the tank had been replenished, and he was recalled from
his "fanning bee" by the necessity of resuming his trip. Gunther had
heard of the contest and had seen Bert's name among the competitors, but
had not associated it with the Wilson of baseball fame.
"You can't get away from the game," he joked, referring to the ten
contestants. "I see that you are still playing against a 'nine.' If that
pun isn't bad enough, I'll go you one better--or worse--and bet that
you'll bowl them over like ninepins."
"Thanks, old man," responded Bert. "I hope I'll make a 'strike.' But now
I'll have to skip and cut out the merry jesting. Jump on your wheel and
set the pace for me for the next ten miles or so."
"Swell chance of my making pace for that crackerjack you have there,"
said Gunther, looking admiringly at the "Blue Streak," "but I'll try to
keep alongside, anyway."
He had a surprisingly good machine and doubled Bert's dare by riding
twenty miles or more, before he finally hauled up and, with a warm
handgrip, said goodby.
"Two pleasant things to-day," mused Bert, as he sped on, referring to
the popular theory that events, good or bad, come in threes. "I guess
the third will be in meeting good old Tom and Dick, when I swing into
the City of Brotherly Love."
And pleasant it certainly was, when, after reporting to the checkers and
timers at the club headquarters, and putting up his motorcycle, he
turned toward the hotel where his chums awaited him with a royal
welcome.
"You've surely got off to a flying start, old top," said Tom. "I hadn't
any idea that you'd hit this burg so soon. We've just fairly got in
ourselves. But before anything else, let's wrap ourselves about some
eats. Are you hungry?"
"Am I hungry?" echoed Bert. "Is a wolf hungry? Is a hawk hungry? Is a
cormorant--say, lead me to it."
And at the bountiful table to which they straightway adjourned, Bert
proved that none of the natural history specimens he had mentioned "had
anything on him." Nor did his friends lag far behind, and it is doubtful
if three happier and fuller young fellows could have been found in
Philadelphia, as, afterward, they discussed the events of the day. They
were especially interested in Bert's meeting with Gunther, as they
themselves had taken part in that famous game. Dick's mighty work with
the stick on that occasion and Tom's great steal home from third were
matters of baseball history.
Then Bert mentioned the railroad episode.
"You ought to have seen the way I beat a train, fellows," he gloated.
"My, but it took some tall speeding."
"Beat a train?" questioned Tom, incredulously.
"What was it--a freight?" bantered Dick.
"Freight nothing," retorted Bert, a little nettled. "A limited express,
if you ask me."
"Near Newark, did you say?" queried Tom.
"I didn't say," was Bert's rejoinder, "but as it happened, it was just
outside of Newark."
"Beat a limited express," murmured Dick, shaking his head. "Tom, I'm
afraid Bert's stringing us."
"Imposing on our innocence, it seems to me," assented Tom, gloomily.
"The next thing, he'll be telling us that he made a daredevil dash
across the track in front of the locomotive."
"And waved his cap at the passengers," mourned Dick.
"And shook it at the engineer," added Tom.
"Say," began Bert, "what----" But the sight of his bewildered face was
too much, and they burst into a roar.
"You poor boob," sputtered Tom, as soon as he could speak. "We were on
that train."