II.
A RACE FOR THE RAILROAD CUP.
Young Blake had now been in Euston two years, and was, among the boys, decidedly the most popular fellow in the place. He was a slightly-built chap; but with muscles like steel wires, and possessed of wonderful agility and powers of endurance. He excelled in all athletic sports, was a capital boxer, and at the same time found little difficulty in maintaining a good rank in his classes. He had taken to bicycling from the very first, and quickly became an expert rider, though he had never gone in for racing. It was therefore a great surprise, even to his friends, when, on the very day before the race meeting, he entered his name for the event that was to result in the winning or losing of the Railroad Cup. It would not have been so much of a surprise had anybody known of his conversation, a few weeks before, with Eltje Vanderveer, the railroad president’s only daughter. She was a few months younger than Rod, and ever since he had jumped into the river to save her pet kitten from drowning, they had been fast friends.
So, when in talking of the approaching meeting, Eltje had said, “How I wish you were a racer, and could win our cup, Rod,” the boy instantly made up his mind to try for it. He only answered, “Do you? Well, perhaps I may go in for that sort of thing some time.”
Then he began training, so secretly that nobody but Dan, a stable boy on his uncle’s place and Rod’s most ardent admirer, was aware of it; but with such steady determination that on the eventful day of the great race his physical condition was very nearly perfect.
He was on hand at the race track bright and early; for, as captain of the club, Rod had a great deal to do in seeing that everything went smoothly, and in starting on time the dozen events that preceded the race for the Railroad Cup, which came last on the programme.
While these earlier events were being run off Snyder Appleby, faultlessly attired, sat in the grand stand beside his adopted father, and directly behind President Vanderveer and his pretty daughter, to whom he tried to render himself especially agreeable. He listened respectfully to the Major’s stories, made amusing comments on the racers for Eltje’s benefit, and laughed heartily at the puns that her father was given to making.
“But how about your own race, Mr. Appleby?” asked Eltje. “Don’t you feel any anxiety concerning it? It is to be the hardest one of all, isn’t it?”
Immensely flattered at being addressed as Mister Appleby, Snyder replied carelessly, “Oh, yes! of course I am most anxious to win it, especially as you are here to see it run; but I don’t anticipate much difficulty. Bliss is a hard man to beat; but I have done it before, and I guess I can do it again.”
“Then you don’t think Rodman has any chance of winning?”
“Well, hardly. You see this is his first race, and experience goes a long way in such affairs. Still, he rides well, and it wouldn’t surprise me to see him make a good third at the finish.”
Eltje smiled as she answered, “Perhaps he will finish third; but it would surprise me greatly to see him do so.”
This pretty girl, with the Dutch name, had such faith in her friend Rod, that she did not believe he would ever be third, or even second, where he had once made up his mind to be first.
Failing to catch her real meaning, Snyder replied: “Of course he may not do as well as that; but he ought to. As captain of the club he ought to sustain the honor of his position, you know. If he doesn’t feel able to take at least third place in a five-starter race, he should either resign, or keep out of the racing field altogether. Now I must leave you; for I see I am wanted. You’ll wish me good luck, won’t you?”
“Yes,” answered Eltje mischievously, “I wish you all the luck you deserve.”
Forced to be content with this answer, but wondering if there was any hidden meaning in it, Snyder left the grand stand, and strolled leisurely around to the dressing-room, lighting a cigarette as he went.
“Hurry up!” shouted Rod, who was the soul of punctuality and was particularly anxious that all the events of this, his first race meeting, should be started on time. “Hurry up. Our race will be called in five minutes, and you’ve barely time to dress for it.”
“Where’s my wheel?” asked Snyder, glancing over the dozen or more machines stacked at one side of the room, but without seeing his own.
“I haven’t seen it,” answered Rod, “but I supposed you had left it in some safe place.”
“So I did. I left it in the club house, where there would be no chance of anybody tampering with it; for I’ve heard of such things happening, but I ordered Dan to have it down here in time for the race.”
“Do you mean to insinuate—” began Rod hotly; but controlling himself, he continued more calmly, “I didn’t know that you had given Dan any orders, and I sent him over to the house on an errand a few minutes ago. Never mind, though, I’ll go for your machine myself, and have it here by the time you are dressed.”
Without waiting for a reply, the young captain started off on a run, while his adopted cousin began leisurely to undress, and get into his racing costume. By the time he was ready, Rod had returned leading the beautiful machine, which he had not ridden for fear lest some accident might happen to it.
Then the race was called, and a pistol shot sent the five young athletes bending low over their handle-bars spinning down the course. They all wore the club colors of scarlet and white; but from Rod’s bicycle fluttered the bit of blue ribbon that Dan had been sent to the young captain’s room to get, and which he had hastily knotted to the handle-bar of his machine just before starting. Eltje Vanderveer smiled and flushed slightly as she noticed it, and then all her attention was concentrated upon the varying fortunes of the flying wheelmen.
It was a five-mile race, and therefore a test of endurance rather than of strength or skill. There were two laps to the mile, and for seven of these Snyder Appleby held an easy lead. His name was heard above all others in the cheering that greeted each passing of the grand stand, though the others were encouraged to stick to him and not give it up yet. That two of them had no intention of giving it up, was shown at the end of the eighth lap, when the three leading wheels whirled past the grand stand so nearly abreast that no advantage could be claimed for either one.
Now the cheering was tremendous; but the names of Rod Blake and Billy Bliss were tossed from mouth to mouth equally with that of Snyder Appleby. At the end of nine laps the champion of two years had fallen hopelessly behind. His face wore a distressed look, and his breath came in painful gasps. Cigarettes had done their work with him, and his wind was gone. The two leaders were still abreast; but Rod had obtained the inside position, and if he could keep up the pace the race was his.
Eltje Vanderveer’s face was pale, and her hands were clinched with the intense excitement of the moment. Was her champion to win after all? Was her bit of blue ribbon to be borne triumphantly to the front? Inch by inch it creeps into a lead. Now they are coming down the home stretch. The speed of that last spurt is wonderful. Nothing like it has ever been seen at the wind-up of a five-mile race on the Euston track. Looking at them, head on, it is for a few seconds hard to tell which is leading. Then a solitary shout for Rod Blake is heard. In another moment it has swelled into a perfect roar of cheering, and there is a tempest of tossing hats, handkerchiefs, and parasols.
