Bert Wilson's Twin Cylinder Racer

by Burt L. Standish

  CHAPTER IV

  A FLYING START

  The day of the race dawned bright and clear. There was just enoughbreeze to temper the heat of the sun, but not enough to interfere withthe riders. There had been no rain since three days before, and theroads, while a little dusty, were firm and fast. Everything bespokeideal conditions for the event that, it was hoped, would hang up newrecords in one of the most modern of sports.

  The three friends had left college the day before, and had taken uptheir quarters at one of the hotels near the beach. They were full ofhealth 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 andTom were looking forward to the trip across the continent and thewonders of the great Exposition. This of itself would have been enoughto account for their exuberance, but there was the added excitement ofwatching the progress of the great race, and, in a sense, taking part init. And, with all the optimism of youth, they did not let themselvesfeel the shadow of a doubt that their comrade would come in triumphant.

  And Bert, although somewhat sobered by the weight of responsibility thatrested 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 tothe hour." The muscles of his arms and legs glided like snakes beneaththe white skin, his color was good, his eyes shone, and he had never inall his many contests felt in better physical trim.

  Early in the morning, he had hurried to the garage to which the "BlueStreak" had been consigned, and was delighted to find that it had madethe journey without a scratch. No one but himself was permitted to giveit 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 thesaddle and took a five-mile spin around the neighboring race track. Andeven his exacting criticism could find no shadow of defect. The "BlueStreak," like its master, was in perfect condition.

  "Well, old boy," said Bert, as he patted the beautiful machine, afterthe test, "we're going to be pretty close companions for the next fewweeks, and you've got a big job cut out for you. But I believe you'regame for it, and if your rider is as good as you are, I won't haveanything 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 motorenthusiasts, and many of the motorcycle clubs were represented by bigdelegations. One or two of the entries had dropped out at the lastmoment, and there were ten contestants who faced the starter. Each hadhis coterie of friends and well wishers who had gathered to give him arousing send off. But none were greeted so uproariously as Bert, who hada reception that "warmed the cockles of his heart." Undergraduates ofthe old college flocked around him, and these were reinforced byhundreds of alumni, living in or near the city, who scented one morevictory for the blue colors that they loved so dearly. They swarmedabout him, grasped his hand and thumped him on the back, until if he hadbeen in poorer condition, he would have been black and blue. It was withdifficulty that he could tear himself away from the multitude whoseenthusiasm outran their discretion. But many a day thereafter, inloneliness and peril and the shadow of death, the memory of thatboisterous farewell was an inspiration. The last hands he clasped werethose of Tom and Dick and Reddy, whose face was as red as his hair fromexcitement.

  "Good luck, me bye," he called. Then in a whisper, "Ye haven't forgotthe shamrock?"

  "You bet I haven't," laughed Bert, and lifting the cover of his toolbox, 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 dippedin the Atlantic, whose surf curled up to meet them, as though to whispera message to its sister ocean. Then all the riders, standing by theirmachines, were drawn up in line on the boulevard that came down almostto the beach. The conditions of the race were read aloud and all of theracers with uplifted hand swore to observe them. A letter from the Mayorof New York to the Mayor of San Francisco was delivered to eachcontestant. Only the one who reached there first was to deliver his.The others would be of value as souvenirs of perhaps a gallant butunsuccessful struggle.

  Then there was a moment's silence, while the excitement grew tense. Thestarter lifted his pistol and glanced along the waiting line. There camea flash, a sharp report, and before the echoes died away the riders werein the saddle. A tremendous roar from the exhausts made the crowd shrinkback, and it scattered as the great machines leaped forward. It was likethe bursting of a rainbow. Blue and red and black and white dartedforward in flying streaks of color, spreading out like the sticks of agigantic fan. Before the startled spectators could catch their breath,the racers were vanishing from sight up the boulevard. The dash fromcoast to coast had begun.

  For the five mile ride along the parkway there was no need of observingthe speed regulations. The road had been kept clear of all othervehicles, and policemen placed along the route kept the crowds to thepaths on either side. The "motor cops," who were personally interestedin that race, that involved their own pet machine, waved greetings asthey passed.

  In a few minutes they had left this atmosphere of friendliness andenthusiasm, and were getting into the stream of the city's traffic. Fromnow on, there was need of constant vigilance. The riders began toseparate, each steering through the street that they figured would bringthem most quickly and easily to the bridges that spanned the river. Bythe time Bert had crossed the old Brooklyn Bridge, he had lost sight ofall his competitors. By different roads, from now on, they would flytoward the common goal, so many thousand miles distant. The spectacularfeatures were in the past. Now each one, alone and unaided, was to "workout his own salvation."

  But there was no sinking of the heart, as Bert, after crossing thebridge and winding through the packed streets of lower New York, stoodon 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 thathe could not guess. But just now, his heart beat high with the delightof struggle and achievement. He had his chance. And he was determined tomake that chance a certainty.

  He was the first one off the boat when it swung into its slip, and assoon 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 reachedNewark, where he again had to let up in his pace for a few minutes. Butluck was with him and gave him an unexpected pace maker, just as he drewinto the open spaces beyond the city limits.

  The broad road ran right alongside the railroad track, and just asBert let out a link and got into his stride, a limited express camethundering along at a high rate of speed. The racing instinct woke inBert 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 tolose the other.

  The passengers, gazing listlessly out of the windows, gradually woke upto the fact that this tiny machine was actually racing with their train.At first they were amused at the seeming impudence, but as mile aftermile passed, with the "Blue Streak" holding its own, they becameexcited. The sportsman spirit that seems characteristic of America wasaroused, and all the windows on that side of the train were filled withcrowding faces. It was like a pygmy daring a giant, a tugboatchallenging the _Imperator_.

  The engineer, at first looking languidly at the impertinent racer, madeno special effort to increase his speed. But when Bert hung to his flankand refused to be shaken off, he turned and said something to hisfireman. The latter shoveled desperately, the engineer let out histhrottle, and the great train lunged forward.

  But Bert, too, had something "up his sleeve." He had been keeping wellwithin his limit, and he knew the speed of which his gallant mount wascapable. 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 andhad to grip his handlebars hard to keep his seat as his iron steedresponded. He flashed on ahead, fairly scorching up the road, and dashedacross the track fifty feet ahead of the
onrushing locomotive. Then, asthe passengers rushed over to the other side of the cars, he waved hiscap to them, shook it defiantly at the discomfited engineer and fireman,and disappeared around the bend of the road. Then he gradually slackenedhis pace, though still maintaining a high rate of speed.

  Bert was hilarious. It was his first race, so far, and he had come outahead. He took it as an omen.

  "Some race, old scout," he confided joyously to his mount. "Youcertainly lived up to your name that time." And he laughed aloud, as heremembered the look on the faces in the cab.

  The race had been a capital thing, not only for the many miles he hadcovered, but because of the added confidence that had been infused intohis veins by the successful outcome. He had "ridden rings" around hisredoubtable 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 forthat day's work, but he was taking no chances, and always felt betterwhen he knew that his tank was full.

  A tall young fellow had preceded him on the same errand, and was justabout to mount his wheel when Bert entered. There was something familiarabout him and Bert cudgeled his brains to remember where he had met him.The stranger seemed equally puzzled. Then a sudden gleam of memorylighted up his face, and he came toward Bert with outstretched hand.

  "Beg pardon," he said. "But isn't your name Wilson--Bert Wilson, thecollege pitcher?"

  "Yes," answered Bert, taking the hand held out to him, "and you--sure Iknow," he exclaimed, as recognition flashed upon him--"you're Gunther ofthe Maroons. I couldn't place you for a minute."

  "You placed me all right in that last game, when you struck me out inthe ninth inning," grinned Gunther. "Do you remember?"

  Did Bert remember? Could he ever forget? Again the scene came beforehim as though it were yesterday. He saw the diamond gleaming in theafternoon sun, the stands packed with twenty-five thousand howlingmaniacs. It was the final game of the season, and the pennant hung uponthe outcome. Two men were out when Gunther came to the bat. He was theheaviest slugger of the league, and the home crowd was begging him to"kill the ball." Bert had outguessed him on the first strike, andsnapped one over by surprise on the second. Then, on the third, he hadcut loose that mighty "fadeaway" of his. For forty feet it had gone on aline--hesitated--swerved sharply down and in, and, evading Gunther'sdespairing swing, plumped into the catcher's mitt. And the howl thatwent up--and the mighty swoop of the fellows on the field--and the wildenthusiasm over Bert--and the bonfires--and the snake dances! Did heremember?

  "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 ofyours had me going. I simply couldn't gauge it. It's a teaser, forfair. You were the whole team that day."

  "We had the luck, that's all," protested Bert. "The breaks of the gamewere 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 fromhis "fanning bee" by the necessity of resuming his trip. Gunther hadheard of the contest and had seen Bert's name among the competitors, buthad not associated it with the Wilson of baseball fame.

  "You can't get away from the game," he joked, referring to the tencontestants. "I see that you are still playing against a 'nine.' If thatpun isn't bad enough, I'll go you one better--or worse--and bet thatyou'll bowl them over like ninepins."

  "Thanks, old man," responded Bert. "I hope I'll make a 'strike.' But nowI'll have to skip and cut out the merry jesting. Jump on your wheel andset 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 tokeep alongside, anyway."

  He had a surprisingly good machine and doubled Bert's dare by ridingtwenty miles or more, before he finally hauled up and, with a warmhandgrip, said goodby.

  "Two pleasant things to-day," mused Bert, as he sped on, referring tothe popular theory that events, good or bad, come in threes. "I guessthe third will be in meeting good old Tom and Dick, when I swing intothe City of Brotherly Love."

  And pleasant it certainly was, when, after reporting to the checkers andtimers at the club headquarters, and putting up his motorcycle, heturned toward the hotel where his chums awaited him with a royalwelcome.

  "You've surely got off to a flying start, old top," said Tom. "I hadn'tany idea that you'd hit this burg so soon. We've just fairly got inourselves. But before anything else, let's wrap ourselves about someeats. Are you hungry?"

  "Am I hungry?" echoed Bert. "Is a wolf hungry? Is a hawk hungry? Is acormorant--say, lead me to it."

  And at the bountiful table to which they straightway adjourned, Bertproved that none of the natural history specimens he had mentioned "hadanything on him." Nor did his friends lag far behind, and it is doubtfulif three happier and fuller young fellows could have been found inPhiladelphia, as, afterward, they discussed the events of the day. Theywere especially interested in Bert's meeting with Gunther, as theythemselves had taken part in that famous game. Dick's mighty work withthe stick on that occasion and Tom's great steal home from third werematters 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 justoutside of Newark."

  "Beat a limited express," murmured Dick, shaking his head. "Tom, I'mafraid 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 dashacross 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 wastoo much, and they burst into a roar.

  "You poor boob," sputtered Tom, as soon as he could speak. "We were onthat train."