He had fallen back from the red car, and the occupants of
that, with a yell of triumph, prepared to cross the line a
winner.
But, like a race horse that nerves himself for the last
desperate spurt, Tom's machine fairly leaped ahead. With his
hands gripping the rim of the steering wheel, until it seemed
that the bones of his fingers would protrude, Tom sent his car
straight for the finishing tape. There was a yell from the
spectators. Men were standing up, waving their hats and shouting.
Women were fairly screaming. Mr. Damon was blessing everything
within sight. Mr. Sharp, in his excitement, was pushing on the
back of the front seats as if to shove the car ahead.
Then, as the pistol announced the close of the race, Tom's car,
with what seemed a mighty leap, like a hunter clearing a ditch,
forged ahead, and crossed the line a length in advance of the red
car. Tom Swift had Won.
Amid the cheers of the crowd the lad slowed up, and, at the
direction of the judges, wheeled back to the stand, to receive
the prize. A certified check for three thousand dollars was
handed him, and he received the congratulations of the racing
officials.
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