THE DAY OF THE RACES.
At last came the day for the races. It was early in July, and the
weather though warm, was not oppressive. Early in the morning a big
crowd started out toward the grounds of the Cresville Athletic Club,
which were about a mile outside of the town proper.
Ned, Bob and Jerry reached the track about ten o’clock, and found it
pretty well occupied.
“It will give us good practice in wheeling in a crowd,” observed Jerry
as he stripped off his sweater and, in regular racing costume, began to
make the circuits.
His two friends soon followed his example. A little later Noddy and Jack
arrived. The two cronies kept to themselves and spoke no word to our
three heroes.
About noon-time there was a general stopping and all the contestants who
were warming up went to get something to eat. Under Jerry’s advice Ned
and Bob ate and drank sparingly.
The races were to begin at two o’clock. Long before that hour most of
the best seats were filled, and there was a crowd on the way to the
athletic grounds that would tax the capacity of the bleachers.
About half-past one o’clock a rather gaunt individual might have been
seen making his way toward the athletic grounds. He wore a pair of
patched trousers and a green coat, with a red patch on either elbow.
“Hi there!” called some boys. “Look at the hobo going to enter the
races.”
“Oh, I may be a hobo, but I’m not a dodo; put that in your pipe and
smoke it till night. That ain’t a good rhyme, but it’ll do this time,”
recited the man in a sing-song tone.
“Ha! Ha! Isn’t he funny!” laughed some small boys.
Hearing the sound of laughter Ned, Bob and Jerry, who were walking
together in the fields, a short distance away from the athletic grounds,
came over.
“Why it’s Old Pete!” cried Bob. “Hello Pete! I say, Old Pete Bumps!” he
called, waving his hand to the man with a green coat and a red patch on
either elbow.
“Oh, I say, is that you, why how do you do?” said Mr., otherwise Old
Pete Bumps, who was a general man of all work about Mr. Baker’s place.
He did everything from feeding the chickens to taking out the ashes.
“Hello Pete!” called Jerry and Ned in chorus. “What did you come for?
Are you going to race?”
“Am I going to race? Well not in this place,” replied Pete gravely.
“I came to watch over you boys. Be a sort of general overseer as it
were. Look after the wheels and see that they get full meals,” he added
without a smile.
From which it may be inferred that Mr. Bumps was something of a
character.
Indeed at one time he had been a well educated man. But an injury to his
head, caused by a fall, and a number of misfortunes, had displaced him
from a life of comparative wealth, and had made him a sort of foolish,
though very loving, elderly man. Mr. Baker had taken pity on him and
made a place for him, for which poor Old Pete Bumps, as he called
himself, was very grateful. He was very fond of children, especially
boys, and was always looking after the interests of Bob and his chums.
“Now Pete can look after our wheels,” said Bob. “I was wondering who we
could leave in charge between the heats, and while we were dressing.
He’ll be the very one.”
“Surely will I, e’en though I die,” said Pete gravely, for he had a
habit of making extemporaneous rhymes on all occasions, which jingles
sometimes fitted and sometimes did not.
“All right, Pete,” said Bob. “Come on over here,” and he led the hired
man to where the boys had left their three wheels in charge of a lad of
their acquaintance, who had agreed to stand guard at the rate of five
cents a half hour. Pete gravely squatted down on the grass near the
bicycles.
Relieved of the responsibility of guarding their mounts, the trio of
lads wandered about the grounds of the club. There was much bustle
and excitement. New riders were constantly arriving and going out on
the track to warm up. Hundreds of spectators were coming afoot, or in
carriages or automobiles. Flags waved gaily in the wind, and the whole
scene was a spirited one. A bevy of girls coming up the road that led to
the entrance of the grounds attracted the attention of our three heroes.
“Looks like my sister Susie with that red dress on,” said Bob.
“And that seems to be Julia, in that green hat,” observed Jerry. “Yes,
that’s her,” he went on. “I can tell by her laugh,” he added, as a
merry peal floated over the green field.
“Who are the girls with them?” asked Ned, who had no sisters, but who
was as fond of girls as they were of him.
“There’s Mollie Horton, who lives near me,” said Ned. “She’s jolly
enough. And Alice Vines. I don’t know who the other one is.”
“That’s Helen Gale,” put in Bob. “I know her. She made that silk flag
with our foot-ball colors on last year for me.”
“Good for her!” exclaimed Ned.
The girls soon came up, and there was merry talk for a little while. The
boys wanted to take the girls over and buy some ice-cream sodas.
“We haven’t time,” objected Julia. “We want to get our seats before the
races begin. We don’t want to miss a one.”
“You won’t miss anything,” assured Ned.
“Oh but we might,” interposed Alice. “And it is not every day we can
come to such a big event as this. If you boys want to get the sodas
afterward--”
“Of course we will,” broke in Jerry. And so they agreed to treat the
girls after the races.
Not long after Pete had been left in charge of the cycles a man,
wearing a slouch hat, who had been but a few minutes before in close
consultation with Jack Pender, shuffled up to where Pete was lying in
the grass.
“Arternoon, mate,” said the roughly dressed man in a growling voice.
“How do you do, I’m glad to see you,” replied Pete, in his sweetest
tones.
“What yer givin’ us?” demanded the stranger.
“Me? I gave you nothing, sir,” replied Pete.
“Come off your high perch then, an’ talk United States,” went on the
stranger gruffly. “My name’s Bill Berry, what’s yours?”
“My name’s Pete Bumps, I’m full of humps,” recited Pete gravely.
“You look it,” commented Bill Berry. “But I say, mate,” he went on, “how
would you like to go off and get a good smoke? Come, I’ll pay for it?”
“I’d like it first rate, but I must stay here quite late,” said Pete.
“Why so? Oh, I don’t know,” mocked Bill, falling into the eccentric mood
of his companion.
“To guard the wheels against the steals,” replied Pete.
“Don’t let that worry you,” went on Bill, eagerly. “I’ll stay here. You
go get yourself something to smoke, and take your time. I’ll stand
guard while you’re away.”
If there was one thing more than another that Old Pete liked, it was to
smoke. Usually he had to forego this pleasure because of lack of funds.
Now here was a chance to indulge. So, after receiving twenty-five cents
from Bill Berry, Pete started over to the grand stand, near which was a
booth where cigars and refreshments were sold.
Bill looked narrowly about as soon as Pete was out of sight. There were
plenty of people around him, but no one seemed to be noticing what he
was doing. Quickly Bill pulled a wrench from his pocket and used it on
each of the three bicycles. Then he brought out a stick of something
black.
“This graphite is well doctored,” he muttered. “I guess it won’t be
healthy for the chains.”
He rubbed a liberal supply on the chain of each wheel, and also on the
sprockets. Then he rapidly opened the tool bags on each machine, took
out the graphite he found there, and substituted some of his own.
“I guess that will do the trick,” he said softly. “And I guess I’ve
earned my two dollars, Jack Pender.”
He hurried off, mingled with the crowd, and a little later was in
conversation with Jack Pender.
A little later Pete came hurrying back. He was smoking a cheap cigar,
and his pockets bulged with others.
“Here you go, Bill, now smoke with a will,” began Pete, when he drew
near where he had left his new friend in charge of the boys’ bicycles.
“Why, he’s gone,” he went on, seeing the deserted mounts. “Wonder where
he went?” However, he did not give much thought to it, and went on
smoking happily.
“Wheels all right?” asked Ned a few minutes after, as he, Jerry and Bob
came up.
“Right as a fiddle, come high-diddle,” recited Pete.
“Hark! What’s that?” asked Chunky suddenly. “Sounds like an
announcement.”
The three boys ran nearer the grand stand where the official announcer
stood. The man was using a small megaphone and went on to say that there
had been a slight change in the program, and that the race for those who
had never been in a contest before would be the first number instead of
the third.
“Great Scott, Chunky! That’ll mean you’ll have to hustle for all you’re
worth!” cried Jerry. “Here, get your wheel out, strip off your sweater
and get around to the track entrance and have your number pinned on.”
Jerry grabbed up his chum’s wheel, while Ned assisted the lad in pulling
his sweater over his head. Then, cautioning Pete to keep a strict
look-out, the three boys ran with Bob to the track entrance.
They were only just in time, and found a lot of other contestants ahead
of them. Bob received his number, and then, for the first time, thought
of his wheel.
“Just spin it for me, to see if it don’t need a drop more of oil,” Bob
asked Jerry. “My hands shake so I can’t undo the tool bag.”
Obligingly Jerry spun the wheels. The rubber-tired circle went around
swiftly for several turns, and then came a sudden slowing down.
“That’s funny,” remarked Bob. “I had that all adjusted this noon.”
Jerry bent down and looked at the bearings.
“The cones have been tightened,” he announced. “Why I can feel the
friction,” and he moved the front wheel slowly with his hands.
“Try the back wheel!” urged Ned.
Holding that clear of the ground Jerry spun it by placing his foot on
the pedal. There was a woeful squeak, and, after a few revolutions that
wheel, too, slowed down. Jerry rubbed his finger over the sprocket
chain. It came away black from the graphite, but mingled with the
blackness were many shining specks.
Just then there came the crack of a revolver.
“That means three minutes to the start,” cried Bob. “What will I do? I
can’t fix the wheel in that time!”
“Some one’s put iron filings in the graphite,” announced Jerry, rubbing
the stuff between his fingers. “There’s trickery here!”
“And I’ll lose the race!” cried Bob. “I know I have a good chance of
winning!”
“Let me get my wheel!” exclaimed Ned.
“It wouldn’t do any good,” interposed Jerry. “We haven’t time to run
after them. Besides, the chances are our wheels are doctored too.”
“All ready, boys!” warned the starter. “Minute and a half more before
the final gun!”
“I might as well quit,” cried Bob.
“Don’t you do it!” said some one suddenly at his side. “Here, you take
my wheel. It’s a racer, and I’ve just oiled it.”
As he spoke a boy, of about thirteen years, who had a slight acquaintance
with our three heroes, shoved a handsome new wheel over toward Bob.
“Oh, thank you, Sam Morton,” said Bob. “But don’t you want it yourself?”
“Not a bit,” said Sam. “I’m not going to race. Take the wheel.”
“All right, I will,” assented Bob. “And I’ll square things with you
afterward, Sam. Some one has doctored mine. I--”
But Bob did not have time to say any more.
“Half a minute!” warned the starter.
“Get on the track!” cried Jerry.
“Line up! Do your best and win!” counseled Ned.
“I will!” shouted back Bob, and the next instant he was lined up with
the others, waiting for the pistol shot that would start them off.
“Crack!”
A little puff of smoke, a sliver of flame, and a slight report. Then the
whirr of rubber tires on the track sounded like the wind rushing through
the trees.
The race, while it was of much interest to the contestants and their
friends, was not very important to the general public. It was only a
mile sprint and there were ten starters.
Bob’s heart beat wildly at first and his wheel wobbled from side to
side. Then the fever of fear left him. He saw that he was not being left
behind and he picked up courage. He shut his teeth tightly, took a long
breath, and let out a burst of speed that carried him to within three
of the leader.
There was a cheer at this, which gave him new courage, and he struggled
harder and harder. Gradually he passed two of those ahead of him. There
now remained but one lad between himself and the lead. He gave one quick
glance.
“It’s Jack Pender,” he thought. “I know he’s been in races before. But
I’m going to beat him.”
Once more Bob clenched his teeth and let out another burst of speed. But
he had a good rider to contend against. Jack, looking behind and seeing
the boy he hated, redoubled his efforts.
The race was half done. Already several who had no chance had dropped
out. The struggle was between Bob and Jack. Bob could hear the band
playing, as if it was a mile away. He drew one long breath, threw into
his leg muscles another ounce of strength and then, with an effort that
surprised even himself he found that he was on even terms with Jack.
“Confound you! What are you trying to do, beat me?” snapped Jack.
“That’s what I am.”
“Well, you’re not going to!”
Jack gave his wheel a sudden turn. His intention was to upset Bob. But
the latter was too quick for him.
“Foul! Foul!” cried several who had seen the attempt.
The two passed the post set an eighth of a mile from the finish, neck
and neck. Bob could see that Jack was almost winded. As for Bob, though
in distress he still had some reserve strength.
Then, with a last final burst of speed, with a frenzied effort that sent
the blood singing to his head, Bob passed his rival, and came under the
tape a winner by two good lengths.
“Hurrah!” cried thousands.
“Hurrah!” cried Ned and Jerry, though Bob could not hear them.
And Bob, almost tumbling from his wheel, felt happier than he ever had
in his life before. He had won the race.
He could see Jack Pender scowling at him, but he did not mind that.
“I didn’t know you were an amateur, Jack,” Bob heard one of the toady’s
friends address him.
“I’m not any more,” laughed Jack. “That was my last amateur race. I’m
going in with the professionals on the next race, and I’m going to win.”
“You are if we let you,” was the response.