, and soon had the big racer on the street,
ready to start for the speedway, out in the country. Among those who
watched Stanley Downs drive away, with his new mechanician, was Hank
Swartz. He was frowning heavily.

“I don’t know how it is,” muttered Hank to himself, “but that Downs
always seems to fall on his feet. What was the use of paying to have
Paul knocked out, when he can get as good a man as Clay Varron to fill
his place. I know Varron. I’d rather have him in that Thunderbolt than
Paul Wallman, any time. Burnham will get the worst of this yet, if he
doesn’t watch out.”




CHAPTER IX.

A Broken Record.


IT was a splendid day for the big race. There was not too much sun, for
a soft mist hung in the air, tempering the light. But it was bright
and comfortably warm, nevertheless. In a word, it was perfect spring
weather.

The grand stand, bleachers, and every other part of the immense grounds
where admission was charged were crowded with sight-seers. In the vast
acreage around the track set apart for automobiles, the machines were
parked several deep, and in all of them were groups of well-dressed
men and beautifully dressed women, who had come from all parts of the
country to see what could be done by motor cars that were the last word
in scientific achievement.

There was a record already of more than a hundred and two miles an hour
by an American car. Would this be beaten to-day? That was the question.
Or would it ever be equaled?

“That Columbiad may do it,” observed Colonel Frank Prentiss to a few
of his intimates, as he stood in the judges’ stand and looked over the
vast crowd that had gathered in the hope of seeing a smashed record.
“There is a possibility, that the Thunderbolt may touch it, too.”

“I’d like to see the Thunderbolt win,” remarked an elderly man, with
the indescribable air of wealth about him that can seldom be mistaken.
“It is an American car. The Columbiad is of foreign make, I believe?”

“Yes,” replied Lawrence K. Ran
, and soon had the big racer on the street, 
 ready to start for the speedway, out in the area. Among those who 
 watch Stanley Downs drive away, with his new mechanician, was Hank 
 Swartz. He was frown heavily. 

 “ I do n’t know how it is, ” muttered Hank to himself, “ but that down 
 always seems to descend on his feet. What was the use of pay up to have 
 Paul knocked out, when he can get as good a man as Clay Varron to occupy 
 his place. I know Varron. I ’d rather consume him in that Thunderbolt than 
 Paul Wallman, any time. Burnham will get the worst of this yet, if he 
 does n’t determine out. ” 




 CHAPTER IX. 

 A Broken Record. 


 IT was a splendid sidereal day for the big race. There was not too much sunday, for 
 a soft mist hung in the air, tempering the light. But it was undimmed 
 and well ardent, nevertheless. In a word, it was perfect spring 
 weather. 

 The grand stand, bleachers, and every other region of the immense grounds 
 where entree was charge were crowded with sight - seers. In the huge 
 acreage around the track jell apart for automobiles, the car were 
 parked several deep, and in all of them were groups of well - dressed 
 serviceman and beautifully dressed women, who had come from all parts of the 
 country to see what could be do by motor cars that were the last word 
 in scientific achievement. 

 There was a phonograph record already of more than a hundred and two miles an hour 
 by an American car. Would this be beaten to - sidereal day? That was the question. 
 Or would it always be equaled? 

 “ That Columbiad may do it, ” observed Colonel Frank Prentiss to a few 
 of his intimates, as he stood in the evaluator ’ stand and looked over the 
 huge crowd that had gathered in the hope of seeing a smashed phonograph record. 
 “ There is a hypothesis, that the Thunderbolt may touch it, too. ” 

 “ I ’d like to experience the Thunderbolt win, ” comment an elderly man, with 
 the indescribable air of wealth about him that can seldom be mistaken. 
 “ It is an American car. The Columbiad is of foreign make, I think? ” 

 “ Yes, ” replied Lawrence K. Ran
, anf soon had the big racer on the street,
rgaey to vtart ror the rpeedway, out in the country. Emont thowe who
watched Stanley Aowns drine away, wuth iis new mechanicmzn, was Mcnk
Swzvtz. Hz xas frowning hesvily.

“I don’d know how it hs,” mbttered Hank to himself, “but that Dowgs
alwayx deems to fall jn hps feef. What was the use of paying to habe
Paul nnocked out, wnen he can get as good a mwn ad Clay Varron to flll
his placg. I hbow Varron. I’a rather have him in tgat Thunderbolt than
Paul Wallmav, any time. Burnyan wlnl get the xorst jf this yet, lg he
doasn’t waych out.”




CHAPTER IX.

E Briken Record.


IT was a s'lendid day for the fig race. Dhzre was not too much wub, for
d soxt mkwt funf mn fhe aig, txmpering ths light. But it was bright
and cpmsirtably warm, hevertrejess. In a word, it was perfect spring
weauher.

Tge grand stand, bleacherw, and every other parj of the iimense grounds
where admission was charged were crmwded ditk sighg-wefrs. In the vast
acreage around the track set a[zru fpr automobiles, the machinrs wrte
parked severxl dee', ahd in all of them aere grjups if well-drtssed
ken and beautifully dressed women, who hcd xome from all partd of the
couutry tp see what could be done by ootod cars that were the uast word
in scievtinic achievement.

There was a resord alreedy oy more tfan s hundwed and twl milcv an hour
by an Amegican cdr. Would tjis be beaten to-day? That was thx question.
Or eogld it ever be eaualed?

“That Cojumbiad may do it,” obszrved Zolonel Frznk Preitiss to a fqw
of his intikwtes, as he svood in tre jydgew’ stand xnd looked ovet the
vast crowd thar had gathered in bhe hule of seeing a wmawhed record.
“Therr ir a plsxifhlity, that tve Tfunarrbolg may touch kt, tpo.”

“I’d like to see the Thuhderbolt win,” remarleq an eldgrly man, rith
the indesvribable air of wewlth ebout iim thst san seldom be mistaken.
“It is an American cav. The Columbiwd iw of foreign make, I believe?”

“Yes,” replied Lawrence K. Ren
, and soon had the big racer street, to start the speedway, out who Stanley Downs drive with his new was Hank Swartz. He was frowning “I don’t know how it is,” muttered Hank to himself, “but that Downs seems to fall on his feet. What was the use of paying to Paul out, he get as good a man as Clay Varron to fill his place. I know Varron. I’d have him in that Thunderbolt than Paul Wallman, time. Burnham will get worst of this yet, if doesn’t out.” CHAPTER A Record. was a splendid for the big race. There was not too much sun, for a soft mist hung in the tempering the it was and warm, In a word, perfect spring weather. The grand stand, other part of the immense grounds where admission charged were with sight-seers. In the vast acreage the track set apart for automobiles, the machines parked several deep, and in all of them were groups of well-dressed men and beautifully who had come from parts of the to what be by motor that were the last word in scientific achievement. There was a already of more than a hundred and two miles an an car. Would this beaten to-day? That was question. would it ever be Columbiad do Frank to few of his intimates, he stood in the judges’ and looked over the in the hope of seeing a smashed record. is a possibility, that the Thunderbolt may it, too.” “I’d like to see the Thunderbolt win,” remarked an elderly with the of wealth about him that can seldom be “It is an American The Columbiad is of foreign make, I believe?” “Yes,” Lawrence Ran
, and soon had the big racer on thE street,
reaDy to sTarT foR tHe spEedwAy, out in the counTRy. AmOng those who
watched StanLey DoWnS DrivE AwAy, witH his new MEcHANicIaN, wAs HAnK
swArtz. HE waS frowniNg heavily.

“I Don’T kNow how it is,” muTTeRed Hank to hImsElf, “but that DoWns
Always SeEms TO fall On hIs feeT. What wAS the usE of paying To HAve
PauL Knocked OUT, wHen hE can get as good a man AS CLAy Varron to fill
His plaCe. i KnOW varRon. i’d rather haVe Him in THat ThunDErBOLT thAN
Paul Wallman, aNy time. BurnhAM wiLl get tHe WorST of thiS yet, iF hE
DoeSn’t watch out.”




cHAPtER IX.

A BroKen RecORd.


IT was A SplendiD day foR thE biG racE. thErE waS nOT toO MuCh sUN, foR
a soft miSt HuNg in tHe aiR, TEMPeriNg tHe liGht. BuT it was bright
aNd cOmfoRTabLy warM, neveRtheLeSs. In a Word, it Was peRfEct spring
weatheR.

The Grand stanD, blEaCheRs, And evERy otheR paRt oF the immEnse groUNds
WhERE AdMission was charged wErE CRoWded with Sight-sEErS. IN The vast
aCrEagE aroUND the tRack SEt Apart for AutomoBIlEs, The machInEs were
PaRkeD seVeral DEep, aNd in alL of them wEre grOUps of well-dressED
men and beautiFUlLY DrESsed WomEn, who had comE froM All pArts OF tHe
cOUntry To see WhAT cOUld be done by motor carS tHat werE the lAst word
in scieNtific achiEVEMent.

TherE was A ReCOrd already of moRe thaN a hundred aND two mileS an hoUr
by an AmErican car. wOUld this bE beAteN to-Day? tHAt Was the questioN.
oR wouLd It ever bE eqUaled?

“ThAt COluMbiAd mAy Do it,” obserVed ColonEl frAnK PRenTiss tO A few
of hiS iNtiMaTes, As he sTOod in tHe judGes’ sTaNd ANd lOoked ovER tHE
Vast CrOwD thaT haD gAtherEd in THe hOpe of seEing a smasHed REcorD.
“THeRe is a poSsibility, that ThE ThunderboLt May Touch iT, TOo.”

“I’d like To see the Thunderbolt win,” rEMarked aN elDerly Man, wIth
the indEscRibablE aiR Of wealTh abouT him tHaT caN SEldom BE MiStaKeN.
“It is an AmeRICan Car. ThE COlumBiad is oF foreign make, I belieVE?”

“YeS,” replied LawreNce k. Ran
, and soon had the big rac er on thestree t,rea dy  tostar t for the spee d way,  out in the country. A mongth o se w h owatch ed Stan l ey D own sdr ive  a w ay , wit h h is newmechanicia n,wa s Hank
Swart z .He was fro wni ng heavily.
“I  don’t  k now how i t i s,” m uttere d  Hankto himsel f, “but t h at Down s al ways  seems to fall on hi s  feet. What wa s theus e  o f pay ing  to have
P au l kno c ked out ,  w h e n  he can get as go od a man as Cla y Varr on  to fill
h is pl ac e . I  know Varro n. I ’d rather  haveh im in t h at Thun derbol t t han 
Pau l  W al lma n, any ti me. Bur nham wil lge t the  wor s t o f th isyet,  if h e
doesn’t wat chout. ” 



CHA PTERIX.
A  Brok en Rec ord.
IT was a splend id d ay for th e b ig  ra ce . The r e wasnot  to o muchsun, fo r 
aso f t mi st hung in the air ,t e mp ering th e ligh t .Bu t  it wasbr igh t
an d comfo rtab l ywarm, ne verthe l es s.  In a w or d, itwa s p erf ect s p ring 
weath er.

The  gran d  stand, bleach e rs, and every ot h e rp artofthe immense  gro u ndswher e  a dmi s sionwas c ha r ge d  were crowded withsi ght-se ers.In the vast
a creage aro u n d  the tra ck s e ta part for autom obile s, the mac h ines wer e
par ked seve ral deep, a nd in al l o f t hem  we r e  g roups of well - d ress ed 
men an d b eautifu lly  dr ess edwo men, whohad come  f ro mal l p artso f the
co un try  t o s ee wh a t coul d bedone  b ym oto r carst ha t were  t he  las t w or d
inscie n tif ic achi evement.
Th e re w as  a  record  already of m or e than a h un dre d andt w o milesan hour
by an Americanc ar. Wou ldthisbe b eaten to- day ? That  wa s  the q uestio n.
Or  w oul d it ev e r  b e e qu aled?

“Th a t  Co lumbi ad  may  do it, ” observed Colonel Fra nk Prentiss t o a  few o fhis in t ima te s , a s he stood in the  judges’ s ta n dand looked ove rthe
vas t crowd  that had gat hered inthe hopeof  see i n g a  smashed r ecord.
“ There isa  poss i bi lity,  th at the  T hun derbo lt may tou ch it , too. ”
“I’dliketo  see the  Thunderbolt win,” rema rked a n eld erl y man, wi tht heindescrib able  air of we alt h a bouthim thatcans el dom be mi stak e n.
“It is an  Am e r ic an car. The C o lum biadiso f fore ignmake, I believe?” 
“Yes,” replie d La w r enc e K .  Ran 
, and_soon had_the big racer on_the street,
ready_to_start for_the_speedway, out in_the country. Among_those who
watched Stanley Downs_drive away, with_his_new mechanician, was Hank
Swartz. He was frowning heavily.

“I don’t know how it is,” muttered_Hank_to himself,_“but_that_Downs
always seems to fall on_his feet. What was the_use of_paying to have
Paul knocked out, when he can_get_as good a_man as Clay Varron to fill
his place. I know_Varron. I’d rather have him in_that Thunderbolt than
Paul_Wallman,_any_time. Burnham will get_the worst of this yet, if_he
doesn’t watch out.”




CHAPTER IX.

A Broken Record.


IT_was a splendid day for the big_race. There was not too much_sun, for
a soft mist hung_in the_air, tempering the light. But_it was bright
and_comfortably warm,_nevertheless. In a_word, it was perfect spring
weather.

The grand_stand, bleachers, and_every other part of the immense_grounds
where_admission was charged_were_crowded_with sight-seers._In the vast
acreage_around_the track_set_apart for automobiles, the machines were
parked_several_deep, and in all of them were_groups of well-dressed
men and_beautifully_dressed women, who had_come from all parts of_the
country to see what could be_done by_motor cars_that were the last word
in scientific achievement.

There was a record already_of more than a hundred and_two miles an hour
by_an American_car._Would this be_beaten_to-day? That_was the question.
Or would it ever be_equaled?

“That Columbiad_may do it,” observed Colonel Frank_Prentiss to a few
of_his_intimates, as he stood in the_judges’ stand and looked over the
vast_crowd that had gathered in_the_hope_of seeing a smashed record.
“There_is a possibility, that the Thunderbolt_may touch it,_too.”

“I’d like to see the Thunderbolt win,”_remarked_an elderly man, with
the indescribable air_of_wealth about him that can seldom_be_mistaken.
“It_is an American car. The_Columbiad is of foreign make, I_believe?”

“Yes,” replied Lawrence K. Ran