A WINNING FIGHT
The big motordome was gayly decorated with flags and bunting, in honor
of the Fourth, and there was just enough breeze stirring to give them
motion. A big military band played patriotic and popular airs, and, as
the spectators filed into their seats in a never-ending procession, they
felt already the first stirrings of an excitement that was to make of
this a night to be remembered throughout a lifetime.
An hour before the time scheduled for the race to begin every seat in
grandstand and bleachers was taken, and people were fighting for a place
in the grassy infield. Very soon, even that was packed with as many
spectators as the managers felt could be disposed of with safety. They
were kept within bounds by a stout rope fence stretched between posts.
At last every available foot of space was occupied, and the gates were
closed. Thousands were turned away even then, although there were over
sixty thousand souls within the stadium.
The motordome had been constructed to hold an immense crowd, but its
designers had never anticipated anything like this. So great was the
interest in the event, that most of those who could not gain admittance
camped down near the gates to get bulletins of the progress of the race,
as soon as possible.
It was an ideal night for such an event. The air was soft and charged
with a thousand balmy odors. The band crashed out its stirring music,
and made the blood of the most sluggish leap and glow. Suddenly the arc
lights suspended at short intervals over the track blazed out, making
the whole place as light as day.
Then, as every detail of the track was plainly revealed, thousands
drew a deep breath and shuddered. The track was banked at an angle of
approximately thirty-eight degrees, with three laps to the mile. It
seemed impossible to many that anything on wheels could cling to the
precipitous slope, that appeared to offer insecure footing even for a
fly.
Near the bottom, a white band was painted around the entire
circumference, marking the actual one-third of a mile. At the bottom of
the track there was a level stretch, perhaps four feet wide, and beyond
that the smooth turf, bordered at a little distance by a dense mass of
spectators confined within the rope fence. Above the track tier after
tier of seats arose.
Opposite the finish line, the starter's and judge's pavilion was built.
Here all the riders and machines that were to take part were assembled,
and it presented a scene of the utmost bustle and activity. Tom and Dick
were there, anxiously waiting for Bert to emerge from his dressing room,
and meanwhile inspecting every nut and bolt on the "Blue Streak."
Despite the recent changes made in it, the faithful motorcycle was still
the same staunch, dependable machine it had always been, but with even
greater speed capabilities than it had possessed before.
Of course, there were many who claimed that Bert could never have a
chance of winning without a specially built racer, and he had been urged
a score of times to use such a mount. But he had refused without the
slightest hesitation.
"Why," he always said, "I know what the old 'Blue Streak' will do, just
as well as I know what I am capable of. I know every whim and humor of
it, and just how to get the last ounce of power out of it. I've tested
it a thousand times. I know it will stand up to any work I put it to,
and I'd no more think of changing machines now than I would of trying a
new system of training two days before I was to enter a running race.
No, thanks, I guess I'll stick to the old 'Blue Streak.'"
Dick and Tom were still busy with oil can and wrench when Bert emerged
from his dressing-room. He was dressed in a blue jersey, with an
American flag embroidered on breast and back. His head was encased in a
thick leather helmet, and a pair of heavy-glassed goggles were pushed up
on his forehead.
He strode quickly over to where his chums were working on his mount, and
they shook hands heartily. "Well!" he exclaimed gaily, "how is the old
'bus' to-night? Everything O.K., I hope?"
"It sure is," replied Dick. "Tom and I have gone over every inch of it,
and it seems in apple-pie order. We filled your oil tank up with oil
that we tested ourselves, and we know that it's all right. We're not
taking any chances."
"That's fine," exclaimed Bert, "there's nothing more important than good
oil. We don't want any frozen bearings to-night, of all nights."
"Not much!" agreed Tom, "but it must be pretty nearly time for the
start. It's after eight now."
Even as he spoke, a gong tapped, and a deep silence descended on the
stadium. Excitement, tense and breathless, gripped every heart.
A burly figure carrying a megaphone mounted a small platform erected
in the center of the field, and in stentorian tones announced the
conditions of the race.
Seven riders, representing America, France, England, Italy, and Belgium,
were to compete for a distance of one hundred miles. The race was to
begin from a flying start, which was to be announced by the report of a
pistol. The time of each race was to be shown by an illuminated clock
near the judge's stand.
The man with the megaphone had hardly ceased speaking when the roar of
several motorcycle exhausts broke forth from the starting platform and
the band crashed into a stirring march.
Then a motorcycle appeared, towing a racer. Slowly it gathered headway,
and at last the rider of the racing machine threw in the spark. The
motor coughed once or twice, and then took hold. With a mighty roar his
machine shot ahead, gathering speed with every revolution, and passing
the towing motorcycle as though it were standing still.
In quick succession now, machine after machine appeared. It was Bert's
turn to start, and, pulling his goggles down over his eyes, he leaped
astride the waiting "Blue Streak."
"Go it, old man!" shouted Dick and Tom, each giving him a resounding
buffet on the shoulder, "show 'em what you're made of."
"Leave it to me," yelled Bert, for already the towing motorcycle was
towing him and the "Blue Streak" out onto the track. They went at a
snail's pace at first, but quickly gathered momentum.
As he came into view of the gathered multitude, a shout went up that
made the concrete structure tremble. This was repeated twice and then
the spectators settled back, waiting for the start.
When he felt he was going fast enough, Bert, by a twist of the right
grip, lowered the exhaust valves, and the next second he felt the old
"Blue Streak" surge forward as though discharged from a cannon. It
required a speed of fifty miles an hour even to mount the embankment,
but before he had gone two hundred yards he had attained it. He turned
the front wheel to the slope, and his machine mounted it like a bird.
Never had he sensed such gigantic power under him, and he felt exalted
to the skies. He forgot everything in the mad delirium of speed;
tremendous, maddening speed. Every time he opened the throttle a trifle
more he could feel it increase. Eagerly, resistlessly, his mount tore
and raged forward, whistling through the air with the speed of an arrow.
In a few seconds he was abreast of the riders who had started first, and
who were jockeying for a good position. There was little time for
manoeuvring, however, for now the riders were fairly well bunched, and
the starter's pistol cracked. The race had started!
And now Bert found himself competing with the crack racers of the world.
Each was mounted on the best machine the genius of his countrymen could
produce, and each was grimly resolved to win. The "Blue Streak" and its
rider were indeed in fast company, and were destined to be put to a
test such as seldom occurs in even such strenuous racing as this.
Bert was riding high on the track at the start, and he resolved to make
use of this position to gain the lead. He opened the throttle wide, and
the "Blue Streak" responded nobly. So great was the force of the forward
spurt that his hands were almost wrenched from the handlebars. He held
on, however, and at the end of the second lap was even with the leader,
a Frenchman.
Bert turned his front wheel down the slope, and swooped toward the
bottom of the track with a sickening lurch. A vast sigh of horror went
up from the closely packed stands. But at the last second, when within a
foot of the bottom of the incline, Bert started up again, and with a
speed increased by the downward rush shot up to the white band.
He hugged this closely, and reeled off mile after mile at a speed of
close to a hundred miles an hour. Leaning down until his body touched
the top frame bar, he coaxed ever a little more speed from the
fire-spitting mechanism beneath him.
But the Frenchman hung on doggedly, not ten feet behind, and a few feet
further back the English entrant tore along. In this order they passed
the fifty-mile mark, and the spectators were standing now, yelling and
shouting. The rest of the field had been unable to hold the terrific
pace, and had dropped behind. The Belgian entrant had been forced to
drop out altogether, on account of engine trouble.
The leaders swept on and gradually drew up on the three lagging riders.
A quarter of a lap--half a lap--three-quarters of a lap--and amid a
deafening roar of shouting from the spectators Bert swept past them. He
had gained a lap on them!
The English and French entries were still close up, however, both
hanging on within three yards of Bert's rear wheel. They reeled off mile
after mile, hardly changing their positions by a foot. Suddenly there
was a loud report that sounded even above the roar of the exhausts, and
a second later Bert fell to the rear. His front tire had punctured, and
it was only by the exercise of all his skill and strength that he had
averted a horrible accident.
"It's all over. It's all over," groaned Tom. "He's out of the race now.
He hasn't got a chance."
Dick said nothing, but his face was the color of chalk. He dashed for
the supply tent, and emerged carrying a front wheel with an inflated
tire already on it, just as Bert pulled up in front of them and leaped
from his mount. His eyes were sunken, with dark rings under them, but
his mouth was set and stern as death.
"On with it, Dick, on with it," he said, in a low, suppressed voice.
"Let's have that wrench, Tom. Hold up the front fork, will you?"
He worked frantically, and in less than forty seconds had substituted
the new wheel carrying the inflated tire in place of the old.
Flinging down the wrench, he sprang into the saddle, and with willing
strength Dick and Tom rushed him and his machine out onto the track,
pushing with all the might of their sinewy young bodies. At the first
possible moment Bert shot on the power, and the engine, still hot,
started instantly. In a second he was off in wild pursuit of the flying
leaders.
As he mounted the track, he was seen to lean down and fumble with the
air shutter on the carburetor. Apparently this had little effect, but
to Bert it made all the difference in the world. The motor had had
tremendous strength before, but now it seemed almost doubled. The whole
machine quivered and shook under the mighty impact of the pistons, and
the hum of the flywheels rose to a high whine. Violet flames shot from
the exhaust in an endless stream.
The track streamed back from the whirling wheels like a rushing river.
It seemed to be leaping eagerly to meet him. The lights and shadows
flickered away from him, and the grotesque shadow cast by his machine
weaved rapidly back and forth as he passed under the sizzling arc
lights.
The spectators were a yelling mob of temporary maniacs by this time. The
Frenchman and Englishman had passed the eighty-mile mark, and Bert was
still a lap and a half behind. He was riding like a fiend, coaxing,
nursing his machine, manipulating the controls so as to wring the last
ounce of energy from the tortured mass of metal he bestrode.
Slowly, but with deadly persistence, he closed the gap between him and
the leaders. Amidst a veritable pandemonium from the crazed spectators
he passed them, but still had one lap to make up in fifteen miles.
Shortly after passing them, he was close on the three remaining
competitors, who were hanging on in the desperate hope of winning should
some accident befall the leaders.
Suddenly, without any warning, something--nobody ever learned what--went
wrong. They became a confused, tangled mass of blazing machine and
crumpled humanity. Bert was not twenty feet behind them, and men turned
white and sick and women fainted. It seemed inevitable that he would
plow into them traveling at that terrific pace, and add one more life to
the toll of the disaster.
Bert's mind acted like a flash. He was far down on the track, and could
not possibly gain a position above the wreckage, and so skirt it in
that way. Nor did he have time to pass beneath it, for men and machines
were sliding diagonally down the steep embankment.
With a muttered prayer, he accepted the last chance fate had seen fit to
leave him. He shot off the track completely, and whirled his machine
onto the turf skirting it.
The grass was smooth, but, at Bert's tremendous speed, small obstacles
seemed like mountains. The "Blue Streak" quivered and bounded, at times
leaping clear off the ground, as it struck some uneven place. For what
seemed an age, but was in reality only a few seconds, Bert kept on this,
and then steered for the track again. If his machine mounted the little
ridge formed by the beginning of the track proper, all might yet be
well, if not--well, he refused to even think of that.
The front wheel hit the obstruction, and, a fraction of a second later,
the rear wheel struck. The machine leaped clear into the air, sideways.
Bert stiffened the muscles of his wrists until they were as hard as
steel, to withstand the shock of landing. The handlebars were almost
wrenched from his control, but not quite, and once more he was tearing
around with scarcely diminished speed.
By great good fortune, the riders involved in the accident had not been
hurt seriously, although their machines were total wrecks, and they
hobbled painfully toward the hospital tent, assisted by spectators who
had rushed to their aid.
Bert was now less than half a lap behind the flying leaders, but he had
only four miles in which to make it up. At intervals now he leaned down
and pumped extra oil into the engine. This added a trifle of extra
power, and as he rushed madly along the "Blue Streak" lived up to its
name nobly. At the beginning of the last mile he was only about three
lengths behind. The vast crowd was on its feet now, shouting, yelling,
tossing hats, gesticulating. They were worked up to a pitch of frenzy
absolutely indescribable.
As Bert crept grimly up, nearer and nearer, the place became a veritable
Bedlam. Now the racers had entered the last lap; only a third of a mile
to go, and Bert was still a length behind. The exhaust of the racing
motorcycles united in one hoarse, bellowing roar, that seemed to shake
the very earth.
Then--Bert reached down, and with the finish line but a short hundred
yards ahead, opened wide the air shutter on the carburetor. His machine
seemed to almost leave the track, and then, tearing forward, passed the
Frenchman, who was leading. As he crossed the finish line, Bert was
ahead by the length of a wheel!
The uproar that burst forth then defied all description. As Bert, after
making a circuit of the track, finally brought the "Blue Streak" to a
standstill, a seething mob rushed toward him, waving hats and flags, and
shouting frantically and joyfully.
Bert had no mind to get in their well-meaning clutches, however, so he
and his two friends made a rush for his dressing room, and reached it
safely. The crowd, being unable to locate its hero, and too excited to
make a methodical search for him, worked off its exuberance by much
shouting and shaking of hands between perfect strangers, and gradually
dispersed.
Meanwhile Tom and Dick, with strong emotion that they made no effort to
conceal, wrung his hand again and again.
"You rode the greatest motorcycle race this old world ever saw, old
friend," said Dick at last, "but Tom and I are never going to let you go
in another. The world would be too empty for us without you."
* * * * *
In the sheaf of telegrams of congratulations handed to Bert next morning
was one from Reddy. It was characteristic:
"Shamrock. Glory be. I knew you'd put it over. Keep in good shape for
football."
"He talks as if I were already on the team," commented Bert; "I may not
make it, after all."
"Swell chance of your missing it," scoffed Tom.
"Everybody knows you're slated for full-back."
To another message, Drake's name was signed:
"Hurrah for the blue. Be back for football in the Fall."
"A decided football flavor in your telegrams to-day," grinned Dick.
"Well," said Bert, "win or lose, I'll be there with both feet."
"You'd better have both of them with you, for a fact," drawled Tom. "You
couldn't do much without them."
And when a few months later, the football season opened, Bert's promise
was fulfilled. How swift those feet of his proved to be in getting down
the field, how mighty in kicking a goal, how powerful in every stirring
feature of the glorious game, will be told in
"BERT WILSON ON THE GRIDIRON."
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
--Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
--Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were corrected without
comment.
--Variations of Blue Streak were made consistent ('Blue Streak'
within quoted speech and "Blue Streak" in all other cases).
--Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
--Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.