An instant later Tom gave a sudden twist to the steering wheel.
It was well that he did, for he was passing the gasolene car
dangerously close. Then he was ahead of it, and in a second he
was three lengths in advance.
Desperately the man opened his muffler, and sought to gain by
this advantage, but though his car gave off explosions like a
battery of guns in action, he could not gain on Tom. The electric
shot around a curve in the road, winner of the impromptu race by
an eighth of a mile.
"Well," asked Tom of his chum, as he slowed down, for the road
now was not so good, "did I do it?"
"You certainly did. Whew! But we did scoot along?"
"Eighty miles an hour there one spell," went on the young
inventor, glancing at a gauge. "But I've got to do better than
that to win the big race."
CHAPTER XV ANDY FOGER'S BLACK EYE
Around the bend came the six-cylinder touring car. The driver,
with a surprised look on his face, was slacking up. He ran his
machine up alongside of Tom's.
"Say," he asked, in dazed tones, "did you take a short cut, or
anything like that to get ahead of me?"
"No," answered the youth.
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