Kitabı oku: «Bert Wilson's Twin Cylinder Racer», sayfa 10
And when at last, tired but happy, they turned their backs on the dazzling scene and were on their way back to the hotel, their talk naturally fell on the topic that was uppermost in their minds.
“How are you feeling, Bert?” asked Tom. “Are you fit?”
“I feel like a two-year-old,” was the answer. “I’m hard as nails and right at the top of my form. I’ll have no excuses to offer.”
“You won’t need any,” said Dick confidently. “Leave those to the losers.”
“One never can tell,” mused Bert. “There are some crack riders in that bunch. But I’m going to do my level best, not only for my own sake, but so that the foreigners can’t crow over us. I’d hate to see America lose.”
“She can’t,” asserted Tom. “Not on the Fourth of July!”
CHAPTER XVIII
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
