THE FINISH.
The doctor's guess was a good one. The excitement of that race was
exactly what Motor Matt needed. It was a tonic, and from the moment
he had entered the _Sprite_ in the Yahara Club boathouse, he was the
Mile-a-Minute Matt of motor cycle and automobile days. His nerves were
like steel wires, his brain was steady, and his eye keen and true.
There was a good deal of vibration--much more, in fact, than Matt had
really thought there would be. The more power used up in vibration, the
less power delivered at the wheel. But what would the vibration have
been if he had not exercised so much care in preparing the engine's bed?
Perfectly oblivious of the spectators, and with eyes only for his
course, Matt saw nothing and no one apart from the boundary buoys,
until he turned the _Sprite_ for the start. Then, while waiting for the
starting gun, he caught a glimpse of the taunting face of Ollie Merton.
"Fooled you, eh?" called Merton. "You'll do sixteen miles, at your
best, and we'll go over twenty."
Motor Matt did not reply. If Merton had only known what was under the
hood of the _Sprite_, his gibe would never have been uttered.
As they passed the stake boat side by side, Merton and Halloran began
to suspect something. The _Sprite_ hung to them too persistently for a
sixteen-mile-an-hour boat.
"He's got something in that boat of his," breathed Halloran, "that we
don't know anything about."
"Confound him!" snorted Merton, enraged at the very suspicion. "If he
fools us with any of his low-down tricks, I'll fix him before he leaves
that made-over catamaran of his."
"You'll treat him white, Merton, win or lose," scowled Halloran.
"Then you see to it that you win!" said Merton.
Along the double line of boats rushed the racers. The waves tossed up
from the bows rose high, creamed into froth, and the spray drifted and
eddied around Matt, Halloran, and Merton. At the edge of the lane, the
craft of the sightseers rocked with the heave the flying boats kicked
up.
Halfway between the stake boats the _Dart_ began to draw ahead. A shout
of exultation went up from Merton.
"Good boy, Halloran! In another minute we'll show him our heels."
But what Matt lost on the outward stretch of the course he more than
made up at the turn around the stake boat. The shorter length of the
_Sprite_ enabled her to be brought around with more facility, and she
came to on the inner side and was reaching for the home-stretch when
the _Dart_ got pointed for the straight-away.
The hum of the engine was like a crooning song of victory in Matt's
ears. He _knew_ he was going to win; he felt it in his bones.
Halloran's juggling with gasoline and spark brought the _Dart_ slowly
alongside and gave her the lead by half a length.
But still Matt did not waver. He could juggle a little with the
make-and-break ignition and the fuel supply himself. His brain was full
of calculations. He knew where he was at every minute of the race, and
he knew just when to begin making the throbbing motor spin the wheel at
its maximum.
The rack of the hull was tremendous. It seemed to grow instead of to
lessen.
Would the hull stand the strain with the engine urging the wheel at its
best?
It _must_ stand the strain! The crisis was at hand and there was
nothing else for it.
Hugging the steering wheel with his body, Matt's left hand toyed with
switch and lever. The yacht at the finish line was in plain view.
Matt did not see the waving hats or fluttering handkerchiefs, nor did
he hear the bedlam of yells that went up on every side. All he saw was
the _Dart_, his eye marking the gain of the _Sprite_.
It was already apparent to Ollie Merton and Halloran that the race
was lost--_unless something unexpected happened to Motor Matt or the
Sprite_.
Halloran was getting the last particle of speed out of the _Dart's_
engine, and steadily, relentlessly, the _Sprite_ was creeping ahead.
Deep down in Merton's soul a desperate purpose was fighting with his
better nature. Suddenly the evil got the upper hand. Merton waited, his
sinister face full of relentless determination.
"When the _Sprite_ takes the lead," he said to himself, "something is
going to happen."
In one minute more Matt forged ahead. The finish line was close now,
and Merton was already stung with the bitterness of defeat.
His hand reached inside his sweater. When it was withdrawn, a revolver
came with it.
Why Merton had brought that revolver with him, he alone could tell. It
may have been for some such purpose as this.
Matt's back was toward Merton, and Matt's eyes were peering steadily
ahead.
If that left hand could be touched--just scratched--the king of the
motor boys would be powerless to manage the _Sprite_.
Many of the spectators saw the leveling of the weapon. Cries of
"Coward!" and "Shame!" and "Stop him!" went up from a hundred throats.
Mr. Merton, watching breathlessly, saw the glimmering revolver, and
something very like a sob rushed through his lips as he bowed his head.
What those who saw felt for his son, _he_ felt for him--and for himself.
Before Merton could press the trigger, Halloran turned partly around.
"You're mad!" shouted Halloran, gripping Merton's wrist with a deft
hand and shoving the point of the revolver high in the air.
Unaware of his narrow escape, the king of the motor boys flung the
_Sprite_ onward to victory.
A good half-length ahead of the _Dart_, Matt and his boat crossed the
finish line--regaining the De Lancey cup for the Yahara Club, winning
the race for George Lorry and gaining untold honors for himself.
The lake went wild; and the enthusiasm spilled over its edges and ran
riot along the shores. Steam launches tooted their sirens, and motor
boats emptied their compressed air tanks through their toy whistles;
the band played, but there was so much other noise that it was not
heard. The Yaharas and their partisans went wild.
Somewhere in that jumble of humanity was Newt Higgins, adding his
joyful clamor to the roar of delight; and somewhere, also, was the
doctor, letting off the steam of his pent-up excitement.
But there was one man on the stake boat whose heart was heavy, who had
no word for any one but his wife. To her he offered his arm.
"Come," said he, in a stifled voice, "this is no place for us. Let us
go."
Matt, as soon as he had checked the speed of the _Sprite_ and pointed
her the other way, jogged back along the line of boats and picked Lorry
and McGlory off one of the launches.
Lorry was radiant.
"You've done it, old boy!" he cried. "By Jupiter! you've done it. You
sit down and take it easy--I'll look after the _Sprite_!"
"Speak to me about this!" whooped McGlory, throwing his arms around
Matt in a bear's hug. "Oh, recite this to me, in years to come, and the
blood will bound through my veins with all the--er--the---- Hang it,
pard, you know what I mean! I've gone off the jump entirely. Hooray for
Motor Matt!"
As Lorry laid the _Sprite_ alongside the stake boat, somebody tossed
her a line.
"Come aboard, all of you," called a voice.
It was Spicer, commodore of the Yahara Club.
While Matt, Lorry, and McGlory were going up one side of the yacht, Mr.
and Mrs. Merton were descending the other, getting into the boat that
was to take them ashore to their waiting automobile.
Mr. Lorry, red as a beet, his collar wilted, his high hat on the back
of his head, and his necktie around under his ear, met the victors,
giving one hand to Matt and the other to George.
"Jove!" he said huskily, "I've yelled myself hoarse. Oh, but it was
fine!"
Ethel threw her arms around Matt's neck and gave him a hearty kiss.
"Nice way to treat a one-armed fellow that can't defend himself,"
whooped McGlory; "and sick, at that. He ought to be in bed, this
minute--the doctor said so!"
"I--I thought it was George," faltered Ethel.
"Oh, bang!" howled McGlory. "It's a wonder you didn't think it was me."
The vice commodore of the Winnequa Club came forward, carrying the
silver cup in both hands. He looked sad enough, but he was game.
In a neat little speech, during which he emphasized the sportsman-like
conduct which should prevail at all such events as the one that had
just passed, he tendered the cup to Lorry. Lorry, blushing with
pleasure, in turn tendered it to the commodore of the Yahara Club.
One of the judges, coming forward with an oblong slip of paper in his
hands, waved it to command silence. When a measure of quiet prevailed,
he eased himself of a few pertinent remarks.
"Gentlemen, there was another supplementary prize offered in this
contest. Unlike the De Lancey cup, which may be fought for again next
year, this additional prize inheres to the victor for so long as he
can keep it by him. It is not for the owner of the boat, but to the
gallant youth who presided at the steering wheel and bore the brunt of
the battle. Had the _Dart_ won, this extra prize would have gone to
Halloran, just as surely as it now goes to Motor Matt. It consists of a
check for two thousand dollars, place for the name blank, and signed by
Mr. Daniel Lorry. There you are, son," and the judge pushed the check
into the hand of the astounded Matt.
"Great spark-plugs!" exclaimed Matt. "I--I---- Well, I hardly know
what to say. I was in the game for the love of it, and--and I was not
expecting this!"
"That was dad's idea," said Ethel happily.
"Bully for the governor!" cried George, grabbing his father's hand.
"Why, I didn't know anything about this, myself."
"It was a 'dark horse,'" chuckled Mr. Lorry. "Come on, now, and let's
go home and get out of this hubbub. Matt, you and McGlory will come
with us. We're going to have a spread."