As they swung along it, the speed increasing, Ned saw an auto
ahead of them.
"Whose car is that?" he asked.
"Don't know," replied Tom. "We'll be up to it in about half a
minute, though."
As the electric runabout, more dilapidated looking than ever
from the layer of dust that covered it, passed the other auto,
which was a powerful car, the solitary occupant of it, a
middle-aged man, looked to one side, and, seeing the queer
machine, remarked:
"You fellows are going the wrong way to the junk heap. Turn
around."
"Is that so?" asked Tom, his eyes flashing at the cheap wit of
the man. "Why we came out here to show you the way!"
"Do you want to race?" asked the man eagerly, too eagerly, Ned
thought. "I'll give you a brush, if you do, and a handicap into
the bargain."
"We don't need it," replied the young inventor quickly.
"I'll wager fifty dollars I can beat you bad on this three-mile
stretch," went on the autoist. "How about it?"
"I'll race you, but I don't bet," answered Tom, a bit stiffly.
"Oh, be a sport," urged the man.
Tom shook his head. He had slowed down his machine, and was
running even with the gasolene car now.
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